As I sit here with my computer in my lap, I am glad I am no longer of child-bearing age; I'm convinced that the slight heat I feel radiating from the machine is changing my genes even as I write. If I had a baby now, the umbilical cord would be connected to the printer.
I remember when photocopy machines came out. Within a year I had photocopied half the world, all with my groin pressed against the front of the machine, which made me realize that photocopiers were the instruments of a government plot: they were making copies all right--of our genetic codes so we could all be identified for future nefarious purposes.
I am currently so dependent on my laptop that I can't start the day without it. I check my e-mail several times a day, and I write down ideas for Fiorella whenever they strike me (like for more than an hour so far this morning). When I am writing a novel, I live with this thing on my lap from about eight in the morning to about ten at night, with only periodic breaks for food, bathroom, and Husband, who looks lonely, but respects my obsession.
I now understand about burial goods found in ancient tombs, and you know what will accompany me into the Beyond.
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