"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?"

"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.

Student 1: Hey, you know that bald professor? Student 2: The foreigner? Student 1: No, the other one.

He deals out the cards, and the first one is very clearly the Death card. "What does that mean?" I ask, a bit concerned.