At a certain age you are allowed to complain about the styles of the youth. You are expected to. The kids just ignore it as the mutterings of the addled.

Its 9:40am and I have already finished my morning coffee.

"You just give it a high score, we call it an R-score, R for reward."

"Is it a boy or a girl?" Lisa asks. "What do see here my little dear?" I ask Lisa, showing her the civet's under-carriage.

I get an e-mail from ChatGPT requesting that I take him on as a PhD student.

I get my broom technique from my father, who used to spend hours of every day sweeping our kitchen. Eunjoo gets hers from her mother, who has no technique what-so-ever. In anything.

"People our age don't ever mean anything naughty," my wife says, once again killing what little tendrils of hope I manage to send through the crust of everyday life.

"I do graph theory." I say, assuming by his question that he knows something about math. "Oh!" he sounds excited, "So you're a sports mathematician?"