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?"

I wonder who is going to sit next to me. Will it be a hairy teen, a loose bouncy french woman, a talkative farmer, or a soulless statistician. It could be anyone. It feels like I am on the program 'The Good Place' waiting for my soul mate.

I have good pees and I have bad pees. And nobody comes down on me harder than I good when a pee doesn't go the way it should.

An open letter to the guy in Paris with the blue suit and the bag of apricots: You aren't better than me just because you have a bag of apricots.

"Wow, you girls killed those cherries!" I yell. And why not yell? No one listens to me anyways. But I guess Lisa did this time.