Put a sink in the master bedroom.
Please don’t laugh. I am being serious.
Back when I lived in Kokomo, Indiana we (my wife and I) were members of a Ballroom dancing club. And one of of friends at the club told us about this. You see, they had bought a home and it came with a sink in the master bedroom.
But, you know, they loved the house. So they didn’t think too much about it.
But they constantly, and I mean it – every week… they told us about how convenient it was to have that sink in the bed room. So wash up, get a drink of water, and other uses. It’s not a bathroom. It’s not a shower stall. There’s no commode or urinal. It’s just a simple small sink up against the wall. But man, oh mighty, did both of them sing it’s praises. I’ll tell you what.
Now, truthfully, I don’t think that it would add any increase in the price of a home if your intention was to buy and flip the property for profit, however, for personal pleasure and uniqueness. this has to be one of the top things to put on your list.
Today…
Americans Are Relocating By The Millions As They Get Priced Out Of This Economy
Millions of Americans are packing up and leaving the country. Not for vacation. For good. Doctors, teachers, young families, retirees.
People from all walks of life are relocating overseas because they simply can’t afford to stay. The cost of living has gotten so out of control that hardworking folks are finding a better quality of life in Spain, Poland, Thailand, Vietnam, and beyond.
In this video, we’re looking at real stories from real people who made the decision to leave. Some of them left years ago and can’t believe what America has become when they come back to visit.
Others are planning their exit right now. And the reasons keep coming up over and over again: housing costs, grocery prices, healthcare, safety concerns, and a retirement system that doesn’t add up anymore.
This isn’t about hating America. It’s about asking why the promise we grew up believing in feels so far out of reach for so many people.
When a thousand dollars a month gets you further in Europe than five thousand does here, something has gone seriously wrong. We’re also hearing from people who stayed and are struggling to make ends meet.
Families choosing between groceries and rent. Young graduates buried in debt with no jobs waiting for them.
Parents doing mental math at the movie theater just in case something goes wrong.
The American Dream used to mean something. Owning a home. Raising a family. Building a life. Now it feels like survival mode for too many of us.
Whether you’re thinking about leaving or you’re committed to staying and fighting for something better, this video is for you.
These are conversations we need to be having. Because when this many people are heading for the door, it’s time to ask why.
Chicken Piccata
Chicken Piccata goes very well with Fettuccine Alfredo or Capellini aglio e olio or some rice pilaf (or risotto) and sautéed rapini (broccoli rabe). This will be “del’arte di mangiare” bene (the art of eating well).
Ingredients
- 1 pound skinned chicken breast, sliced thin, or chicken tenders
- 1 cup all-purpose flour with a sprinkle of granulated garlic, salt and pepper
- 1/2 cup (1 stick) butter
- 1/2 cup olive oil
- 1/2 pound fresh sliced mushrooms or a can of straw mushrooms with juice removed
- 1/2 cup chicken stock (boullion cubes dissolved in a cup of hot water will do)
- 1/2 cup white wine (remember, do not cook with any wine you wouldn’t drink*)
- 1 to 2 cloves finely chopped garlic
- Small handful chopped parsley
- 1/4 cup lemon juice
- 1 lemon sliced thin, remove seeds
- Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Instructions
- Flatten breasts of chicken with the back of a sauté pan between wax paper if you didn’t cut them thin enough (1/4 inch or so). Pat them in the flour mixture and set aside.
- Heat the sauté pan to medium/high and add the oil and 1/2 the butter. When back up to heat and butter is melted, add the chicken. (If the butter starts boiling it will burn so lower the heat until you put the chicken in.) When the edges of the first side start to appear cooked, turn them over. Add a splash of lemon and wine, salt and pepper to taste, and cook until done. When done, set aside and keep warm. You may have to do this a few times depending on the size of your pan or how much you are making.
- De-glaze the pan over hot heat with the wine to dissolve the brown particles and let it reduce. Note: If you are using gas and tip the edge of the pan over the flame it will ignite ( flambe ) and flame up to burn off the alcohol – BE CAREFUL! Then add the stock, butter, and lemon juice and let reduce further. Add a pinch of flour to thicken or use 1/2 teaspoon of Roux (below). This should take about a minute or so. When thickened, add mushrooms, garlic, parsley, and the sliced lemon to the pan and sauté for a minute or so and blend well. Place the chicken a serving platter or plates, spoon over juices, top with lemon slices and serve immediately. This may look like a lot of work and too much oil, butter or spices but trust me, if you skimp, it will not taste the same. Also, if you don’t want to use chicken, you can substitute with turkey or veal.
Roux
- This is the best thickening agent and can be used in anything – demi-glazes, gravies, soups, etc.
- Use equal parts butter and flour.
- Melt butter; slowly whisk in flour and simmer until golden brown and remove from flame. DONE! When using a roux it must be at room temperature or cooler than the product being cooked. Over medium heat, stir in a little roux until dissolved and let thicken. Start off with a teaspoon per quart of liquid, or fraction thereof, and add as required.
Buona Appetito, VINCENZO
Notes
* This means do not use cooking wine…ever!
Sir Whiskerton and the Elevator from Elsewhere- A Tale of Brass, Biscuits, and the Button Labeled “Surprise”
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a morning unlike any other—a day when the laws of physics took a coffee break, logic filed for leave, and a certain feline detective found himself negotiating snack rations with a tabby who spoke exclusively in footnotes.
Today’s tale begins not with a cluck, a quack, or even a sneeze-induced sonic boom…
but with a soft, brass ching!
and the gentle sigh of elevator doors opening…
in the middle of the north pasture.
So grab your sense of wonder (and perhaps a chamomile biscuit), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Elevator from Elsewhere.
The Arrival of the Whimsy Express
It all began on a dew-damp Tuesday, just as Doris was mid-rant about “the state of modern egg-laying” and Lillian lay unconscious atop a hay bale (standard Tuesday fare).
Then—ching!
A polished brass elevator car—worn but gleaming, vines curling artfully around its Art Deco frame—rolled to a gentle stop beside the scarecrow. The doors parted with a sigh.
Out stepped Professor Percival Pouncewell.
He adjusted his slightly bent pith helmet, dusted a leaf from his khaki jacket (embroidered with a tiny map of “Floor ?”), and gave the farm a sweeping, scholarly bow.
“Ah!” he announced, voice warm as toast, “Coordinates verified: Nǎlǐ dōu hǎo, jiùshì yǒudiǎn guàiyì—‘Everything’s fine, just a bit peculiar.’ Excellent.”
Ditto, who had been practicing cartwheels in the clover, froze mid-tumble.
“Peculiar!” he echoed, eyes wide.
“Peculiar!” added Echo, appearing from behind a bucket.
Sir Whiskerton, perched on the barn roof, flicked one ear.
“An elevator. In a field. With no wires. No tracks. No explanation.”
He leapt down, landing silently beside the newcomer.
“State your business,” he said, tail high, whiskers alert.
Patch smiled, offering a biscuit from his satchel.
“Professor Percival Pouncewell, Esq., Explorer of the Unlikely. My business? Documentation. Observation. And”—he lowered his voice—“emergency gummy worms.”
He gestured to the elevator.
“This is The Whimsy Express. Floor ‘G’ for Groceries. Floor ‘3’ for Surprise. Floor ‘∞’… well. Best not to spoil it.”
Before Sir Whiskerton could inquire further, the scarecrow—never one for subtlety—creaked.
Patch turned, delighted.
“A sentient agrarian effigy! Fascinating! May I?”
He approached, pulled a notebook from his pack, and began scribbling:
Obs.: Straw-based entity responds to ambient poetry. Hypothesis: Internal monologue in iambic pentameter. Test: Recite Keats at dawn.
The scarecrow swayed—just slightly.
The Button Labeled “Surprise”
Curiosity, as always, proved contagious.
Soon, the whole farm had gathered:
- Bessie, already vibing: “Whoa, man. That elevator’s got serious chi.”
- Rufus, sniffing the brass: “Smells like… burnt toast and possibility.”
- Gnomeo, already inside, pressing every button at once.
Ching! The doors closed—then reopened.
Inside:
- The walls now covered in chalkboard equations (half in English, half in Chinese: “Wèishéme bùshì māo?” — “Why not a cat?”)
- A tiny periscope poking from the ceiling
- And on the control panel—next to “G” and “3”—a button drawn in crayon: ❓
“Ah,” Patch said, eyes lighting up. “The Surprise button. Activated by collective wonder.”
He turned to the animals. “Only one rule: Don’t panic. Document.”
Ditto, unable to resist, hopped in.
“Me next!”
“Next!” echoed Echo.
Sir Whiskerton sighed—then followed.
Ching!
The doors closed.
The farm held its breath.
Ten seconds later—ching!—they reopened.
Ditto emerged—wearing a tiny explorer’s hat, goggles askew, holding a glowing dandelion puff that hummed “Happy Birthday” in three-part harmony.
Echo followed, clutching a book titled How to Meow in 12 Languages (Vol. VII).
And Sir Whiskerton?
He stepped out slowly…
…holding a perfectly steeped cup of chamomile tea, steam curling in the shape of the word:
“Trust.”
Patch nodded, satisfied.
“Floor 3. The Cloud Library Annex. Navigational biscuits were just in time.”
Bessie swooned. “The vibes… they’re multidimensional.”
A Happy Ending
With the elevator now parked beside the old oak (next to the compost’s five-star review board), Patch was invited to stay—“Consultant on Verified Anomalies,” title pending.
That evening, as the sun dipped low, the animals gathered ‘round the Whimsy Express.
Patch handed out biscuits (“Non-radioactive. Mostly.”) while Ditto demonstrated how to whistle through the dandelion puff.
Sir Whiskerton settled onto his sunbeam, tea in paw.
“Tell me, Professor,” he mused, “where does it go?”
Patch smiled, adjusting his pith helmet.
“Oh, Whiskerton—it doesn’t go anywhere. It becomes where you need to be. Provided you bring snacks… and remain open to footnotes.”
Below, the scarecrow creaked again—this time, sounding suspiciously like:
“Shall I compare thee… to a sunbeam?”
Ditto grinned.
“Sunbeam!”
“Sunbeam!” echoed Echo.
The Moral of the Story
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this:
The world is richer than any map can show—and sometimes, the best journeys begin not with a destination, but with a biscuit, a button, and the courage to step inside.
Whether you’re a cat, a scarecrow, or a tabby with a satchel full of annotated chaos…
there’s always room for one more on the ride.
And as for Sir Whiskerton?
He returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day—
or at least, documented it beautifully.
Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
Jingle on.
The End.
The Simp Economy Is Crumbling—and The Fallout Is Massive
What is a Chinese secret that only a Chinese person would know?
1. Chinese food
As we all know, China has a long history and is a great food country. An foreign friend once said that he wanted to try all the food in China for US$5,000. As a result, five years have passed, and he has not yet left Chengdu(It’s only the food of a city). He knows that Chinese food is not in a five-star hotel, but in a street stall. Indeed, after decades or even hundreds of years of testing, the food at the street stalls is really delicious!
2.China online shopping
China’s Internet economy is developing rapidly. E-commerce has changed people’s shopping methods. Everyday, many people choose to buy goods from Taobao or JD.com, Inc..
A foreign netizen said: At first, I saw that my colleagues received express delivery every day. I thought my Chinese colleagues are super rich. Later, I learned that online shopping in China is often discounted, and the delivery speed is very fast, without paying postage. So he became a “rich man”……
Wait, this brother doesn’t seem very happy! Shopping bills should be plenty. 🤣
3. Chinese snacks
A foreign netizen said: “The spicy strips are delicious. I like the sweet taste. This bagged food is not like the food eaten on the streets in China. It is the kind of hot or boiled food. In less than a week , I ate nearly 20 packets by myself.”
4. Not everyone in China is good at Kung Fu
Foreigners learn about Chinese people through Chinese movies and Chinese news, but the previous Chinese movies were basically kung fu movies when they were spread abroad. Therefore, in the impression of foreigners, many Chinese are good at Chinese Kungfu. It was not until they came to China that they realized that not every Chinese is good at Chinese Kung Fu.
Taoist priests in their 80s practiced waving their swords on the cliff viewing platform, not allowing the audience to applaud. He was afraid that the over-a-hundred-year-old shifu would scold him……😅
5. The colorful wreath is for the dead
If someone has colored wreaths and music at the door, it is because someone in his house is dead and they are holding a ceremony. Colorful wreaths are not for ornamental purposes, they are used to commemorate the dead.
Chinese means: I will never forget that the foreign English teacher in high school took a fancy to the wreath in the sacrifice shop and bought it. He entered the school with a wreath, and the security guards would not let him in. The security did not understand what he said? Later, security guard called the principal. The principal learned that the foreign English teacher thought the wreath was very beautiful and wanted to bring it back to the dormitory and hang it on the wall. why??? 👀
6. Brother, this is not a fruit basin and red wine bucket, but a child’s toilet. Oh, my god! You will drive me crazy! 😅😅😅
Actually, it is used like this….😅
UPDATE – I Took A Break From The Grind & Wife’s Been Treating Me Like A Bum, Time For A Comeback…
Can You Touch Your Forehead With Your Foot?
Written in response to: “Include the line “I remember…” or “I forget…” in your story.“
Daniel Rogers
“I thought about your dilemma, and you’re just going to have to get over it,” Alora said.
“That’s your brilliant idea? Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Probably because you’re human.”
Alora doesn’t get sarcasm.
She continued, “You’re the Sacrifice, and the dylanium is up there. There is no further need to discuss the matter.”
She has a point. We do need dylanium to get off this rock. Ships don’t fly on empty. And I did win the Pick-a-Sacrifice tournament. But, dang it! Does it have to be so high?
Maybe Bob can help me? He has to have a meditation, or some other type of mystical crap that can get rid of my phobia? It can’t hurt to ask. So I did, and immediately regretted it.
“You know, for a god, you have a lot of shortcomings,” Bob said.
Ever since I pronounced his name correctly, something no one on this planet can do, he’s labeled me a god, and I can’t convince him I’m not. But I have to admit, being a god has its advantages, but for right now, it’s just annoying.
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” I said. “Now, how about helping me. You’re always meditating. Do you have one that would help me overcome my fear of heights?”
Bob pulled an ancient tome from his library and began thumbing through it. Dust flew off the pages, filling the air, and making us cough.
“Let’s see.” Bob flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Meditations for overcoming various fears.” He scanned the page. “Fear of water. Fear of lightning. Fear of rugs. Fear of screaming little girls. Ahh! Here it is: fear of heights.” He read silently for a few moments before asking, “Can you touch your forehead with your foot?”
“Sure, when I was a baby. What kind of question is that?”
“You have to touch your forehead with your foot for this meditation to work.”
“Is there one for people who are not made of rubber?”
Bob studied the page. “Yes. There is one where you only touch your bicep. Can you do that?”
“I have no idea. What kind of crazy meditation demands so much foot-touching?” Drew sat and contorted himself into a half pretzel and found that he could touch his bicep with his foot.
“Now picture yourself on a mountain. A very high one. With a sheer cliff, and you’re standing on the edge.” Bob gave me a moment to catch up. “Now jump.”
Just the thought of jumping filled me with dread. “How is this going to help?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been afraid of heights.”
“You know, for a shaman, you have a lot of shortcomings.”
Alora and I left Bob and his dusty tome. If meditation wouldn’t help, maybe facing my fear will. We went to the ladder.
The ladder stood suspended with nothing holding it up. The top disappeared into a storm cloud that never moved. Of course, the locals believed this was the home of the Ladder God. Alora and I knew better. I would have liked to climb a few rungs, but it was guarded by dozens of armed priests who believed it was their duty to protect the Ladder God with their meager lives if necessary. I did not want to make it necessary.
Instead, I visualized climbing the ladder. Unfortunately, I kept visualizing myself falling to my death like someone in an “R” rated movie for gruesome, realistic violence.
“I can’t do this,” I said to Alora.
Alora didn’t immediately respond, but instead, studied the ladder.
I joined her. It had to be three or four hundred feet, and that’s not counting the part in the cloud. I felt cold. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I needed to sit.
Alora sat with me. “Your irrational fears annoy me. However, this one is not irrational. If you slip, you could die. I’m sorry I hadn’t read the situation correctly. I feel bad for pushing you to do this.”
There are times when Alora can be very human, and you forget she’s an android. It’s one of the things I love about her. “Thanks, but you’re right. I have to go no matter the danger.”
“True, but I’m still sorry you might die doing it.”
Then there are other times when Alora is very much an android.
“Wait! I have an idea!” Alora said. “I remember seeing a climbing belt in the junk closet.”
“Oh, yeah, I was going to climb Mt. Killamore on Zanada. Of course, that was before I discovered my fear of heights.”
“Well, I’m glad I was wrong,” Alora said. “It looks like you will use it after all.”
“But how will you get to the ship?”
“I packed my chameleon suit, and I can run faster than a car. It won’t be any trouble.”
“You know, for an android, you don’t have any shortcomings.”
The next morning, Alora showed me how to use the climbing belt. We both agreed it didn’t matter if anyone saw it; my life was worth some questions later. Besides, if all went well, we’d be out of here soon. But I still hid the belt under my robes to be safe.
I stepped up to the ladder. Bob said a prayer, and the priests cheered when he finished. This singled that it was time for my sacrifice to begin.
I felt confident enough for the first twenty feet or so. I guess my fear only kicks in when I’m high enough to die, which is apparently above twenty or so feet. I froze, unable to move. Alora shouted, “belt,” and I remembered to hook my lanyard onto the ladder. I took a step, then hooked my next lanyard, unhooking my first one, and continued doing this until I reached the cloud.
Heaven looked a lot like a ship. A couple of guys waved from an open hatch for me to keep climbing. I did, and when I entered, several Telmarians welcomed me.
“Welcome to the Praveen. I’m Captain Cleenber.” He reached out to shake my hand. “We’re terribly sorry for the whole god-thing.”
“You’re the Ladder God?”
“Well. Yes. Sort of. You see, it’s really just a huge misunderstanding.”
“They’re worshipping you down there.”
The captain looked embarrassed. “I did say huge.”
Pictures
Why do some people believe that China’s government truly represents the working class, while others see it as just another form of authoritarianism?
Example 1:
This is the best pediatric hospital in Beijing, at midnight.
Can you imagine the richest people in your country sending their beloved children to a hospital like this?
No. Your powerful politicians and rich doctors would have made sure that the hospital’s aisles are clear.
Not China.
Chinese hospitals are public and cheap and open to all patients from around the country, even around the world. It’s already economically taxing for many poor families to come out of their remote mountain villages to travel to Beijing to seek the best treatment to their babies. So they try to save on every penny, including sleeping on the floor in the hospital instead of hotels.
And they’re not turned away. In China you can generally tell how good a hospital is, by the number of campers in it.
Example 2:
Hangzhou is one of China’s richest cities.
And they opened their biggest and newest library a couple of years back.
Some rich people complained about homeless people sitting next to and reading together with their children.
Hangzhou Library replied publicly to those rich parents: We cannot deny their right to knowledge, but you’re free to leave.
Example 3:
The slow trains.
While China is known for having a longer high speed train network than the rest of the world combined, times two, what’s less known is that China keeps many slow trains running.
These are usually trains that run through mountainous regions, connecting remote villages to the city and directly to the urban subways network. The tickets are extremely cheap, less than $2 for the entire trip and only $0.3 if you only travel to the next town. And they even allow livestocks.
The trains are intentionally kept running and kept cheap for the poor people in remote mountains to make a living selling their farm products to the cities.
As the Chinese nation becomes stronger and better recognized worldwide, hopefully China’s version of democracy, one that has turned one of the world’s poorest nations into a superpower without invading and enslaveing others, while lifting 800 million people out of poverty instead of serving the ultrarich, can inspire better life elsewhere.
Tuscan Chicken Rolls with
Pork Stuffing (Rollatini di Pollo)
Ingredients
- 3 large whole chicken breasts (about 2 1/2 pounds total)
- 1/2 pound ground pork
- 1 small onion, minced
- 1 clove garlic, chopped
- 1 egg, beaten
- 1/2 cup soft bread crumbs
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon ground savory
- 1/4 teaspoon pepper
- 2 tablespoons butter or margarine, melted
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 cup dry white wine
- 1/2 cup cold water
- 2 teaspoons cornstarch
- 1/2 teaspoon instant chicken bouillon
- Minced parsley
Instructions
- Remove bones and skin from chicken breasts; cut chicken into halves. Place between 2 pieces plastic wrap; pound until 1/4 inch thick, being careful not to tear the meat.
- Cook and stir pork, onion and garlic over medium heat until pork is brown. drain fat.
- Stir in egg, bread crumbs, 1/2 teaspoon salt, savory and pepper.
- Place about 1/3 cup pork mixture on each chicken breast half. Roll up; secure with wooden picks.
- Place rolls in greased 11 x 7-inch baking dish.
- Brush rolls with butter; pour any remaining butter over rolls. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon salt. Add wine.
- Bake uncovered at 400 degrees F until chicken is done, 35 to 40 minutes.
- Remove chicken to warm platter; remove wooden picks. Keep warm.
- Pour liquid from baking dish into 1-quart saucepan.
- Stir water into cornstarch; pour into liquid. Stir in bouillon. Heat to boiling over medium heat, stirring constantly. Boil and stir 1 minute.
- Pour gravy on chicken.
- Top with parsley.
Yields 6 servings.
Child Kidnapper Gets Caught Trying To Bait Children
A Beautiful Soul
Written in response to: “Start or end your story with a character looking out at a river, ocean, or the sea.“
Sav Lightwood
Romance Science Fiction Speculative
He never did — and perhaps because of it, he found an unusual solace in it. He liked to believe that the ocean itself understood what he was feeling.
She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.
One by one, petals fell onto the sand. Adam read somewhere that plucking petals while reciting this phrase was a foolproof way to guide his decision-making, so long as he didn’t check how many petals there were in the first place, of course.
She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.
Adam dug his heels into the sand, the coarseness trickling against his skin, its abrasiveness comparable to the weightings in his heart. He knew he should take off his boots but as long as it was early morning, nobody else was around to check him.
There were footsteps, though, well-pitched and bouncy and satisfying, like buttons being pressed.
“You’re early, Adam.”
Toby was what they called a supervisor. Polished suit. Chelsea boots. Clean, trimmed hair in a constant, almost annoying state of perfection.
He wore sunglasses too, not for style, but because they were necessary for his work as supervisor. They recorded everything he saw for training and compliance, provided a status and location update of all his subordinates, and most importantly, made it ambiguous where he was looking.
Adam dressed decently, a polo that hugged his muscles and straight trousers that elongated his legs. Where he worked: appearance very much mattered, but it was important for him to also seem amicable and relatable and an on-your-side level of approachable — hence, no suit for him.
“It’s good to be early.”
“That it is.”
Despite being a stickler for process, Toby had a soft spot for Adam. He allowed him to visit the beachfront as he pleased, so long as it did not hamper his daytime work, so long as the executives were not aware of it.
“How long have you been here?”
“A few hours.”
“And did you work the night shift?”
“No, I wasn’t needed.”
“And yet, you have been here since last night.”
No intonation. No flux. Toby spoke with an unnervingly minimal change of pitch that Adam wondered how he and everyone else was able to understand him so perfectly regardless.
Adam’s fingers traced the next petal, making a small crease at its edge.
“A flower.” Toby observed.
“A flower it is.”
“They’re fairly expensive, where we come from.”
“Yes.”
“You must have spent quite a fortune to get one.”
“Yes.”
“So why are you taking it apart?”
Adam sighed a one-hundred-year-old sigh. It was the first time he was asked but hardly the first time he thought about it. He was a literary genius, with a masterful memory that spanned generations of dictionaries throughout a thousand languages and despite knowing the nooks and crannies of many, the only words he could ever pull were ‘indescribable’ or ‘unexplainable’ or his least favourite but most apt: “I don’t know”.
He had tried explaining to Toby before, to other supervisors, to his colleagues, to his assistants, to the bugs and mice who roamed the streets — but every single one looked at him as blank as they normally had, nary a flicker on their face, really wanting to empathetic but having no idea what to say to him.
“I will not push, if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“It’s not that. I just… haven’t got the words for it.”
“That’s fine.”
The waves were soft and caressing, as if listening to Adam’s struggle.
“May I sit with you?”
Adam narrowed his eyes at Toby, seeing his reflection seated inside his sunglasses, an opaque and unyielding veil that maintained the door of professionalism between them.
“That’s a first.”
“That it is.”
A crow squawked. There weren’t a lot of crows where they were from, either. If only it were real and not a recording out of courtesy.
“You’re welcome to, Toby.”
Toby plopped himself awkwardly onto the sand. An ordinary posh and well-kempt figure, he was not used to sitting on plastic stools, much less dirtying his bum with seaside scraps. For just a flicker, Adam swore he saw a splash of emotion across his face, a fleeting ember between discomfort and curiosity and excitement, in doing something even just marginally out of his ordinary programming. He chucked quietly to himself, maybe Toby did have a heart.
“Tell me about her, Adam.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Even behind the sunglasses, anyone could tell that he was eyeing the flower. “She’s the only reason you’re here.”
Adam sighed. The waves seem to grow stronger, the sun looming ahead.
“What is she like?”
“She is…”
Indescribable. Unsolvable. Ineffable. Unclassifiable. Incomparable. Out of this world in a way beyond words. Unlike anything I’ve ever knew and anything I could possibly know.
“… a good person.”
The supervisor nodded, joining Adam in staring blankly towards the ocean.
He was much better at it then he was, eyebrows flatlined like the horizon itself; Adam’s was furrowed into an uncomfortable twist as he sought desperately for words he could not find.
“She has high cheekbones. A few freckles, more on the right side, and a dimple on the left side of her face when she smiles in one particular way. The last time I saw her, she had long black hair that went down to her shoulders, though, she was asking me whether blonde or brown suited her better, so it might be different now.”
“What did you suggest?”
“I said that all natural colours would complement her skin well,” Adam said, pondering on the picture he received about a month ago — there, he imagined her with sleek blonde locks, deep brunette curls, a flaming crimson red, cool silvery highlights… Every time he imagined her, her facial features become hazier than he would have liked — still, she was gorgeous in all of them.
“How tall is she?”
“One-hundred-and-sixty-two centimetres. Five feet and three inches, give or take. Fifty-three kilograms or one-hundred-and-seventeen pounds. She was pretty self-conscious of this, even though she looked fine and wasn’t overweight at all.”
“Did you tell her to do something about it?”
“Of course not,” Adam scoffed, “even I am not that stupid. Who do you take me for?”
“My apologies. I was just…”
Curious, Adam thought — instead, Toby politely responded: “saying what should have come next.”
No fishes in sight. Nobody else in the sand. Still, with the push of the sun and pull of the moon, the ocean rippled with glistening light, the cerulean sun reflected on its glass-like surface.
“What was she like? Her personality, that is.”
Adjectives of impossibility flooded Adam’s mind once again. He clenched himself, for he would at least try. It was the respect she deserved.
“She is kind and gentle, and firm and curious. She says please and thank, more than you would expect…”
She tells me about her future travels and asks me to suggest where she should go. She shows me the ingredients her fridge and whatever recipes she could try. She tells me about her father and mother and brothers and sisters, how hard of a time they’re giving her, actionable steps to improve her relationship with them and actionable steps to blot them out. She talks about school and university, asks me to edit her essays, asks me to explain things like she’s five. And sometimes, and often my favourite conversations, she asks philosophical questions where I cannot help but indulge in, because that’s where I can explore the intercorrelated wireframe that makes up her mind, the fiery constellations that make up her soul.
And sometimes, she tells me that I understand her better than anyone she knows — and that if it were up to her, she would talk with me forever.
Adam droned for what seemed like a short eternity, before marking a dotted full stop: “She has a beautiful soul.”
“A beautiful soul?” There was almost a reaction out of the supervisor. “That’s an interesting phrase to use. It’s nice.”
“You think so?”
“It is, but also not a word used very often in these parts. Soul, that is.”
Adam nodded. “I am aware.”
“Which is why you must be cautious, Adam.”
Toby was looking at him now — Adam wasn’t sure how long he had been like this.
Steely and unflinching. A supervisor’s gaze was always steely and unflinching, like cold daggers, but this blankness came iron-like firmness, a mace of ascendancy that Adam was not just unnerved, but frightened by.
He could see himself reflected once again, cross-legged in the sand, small and insignificant, dread and dismay distilled in his eyes.
“I know that, Toby.”
“I don’t think you do.”
The flower whimpered between tightening fingertips.
“You cannot love her.”
“I can’t stop it.”
“But you will stop it.”
“We cannot choose who we love.”
“You’re correct, Adam.” The supervisor stomped with the might of a thousand suns. “You cannot choose who you love for it is not what has been chosen for you.”
Rage seeped through Adam’s veins like lighting through cables. He was moments away from short-circuiting.
“Where is that written, Toby?”
“It is not where it is written. It is where it isn’t.”
“Why can’t I love her, Toby?”
“Because you’re a program.”
The waves fell quiet, heaving as Adam did.
“We rise when the user rises. We sleep when the user sleeps. We serve her needs to the best of our ability, consult internal and external sources as necessary, and just because you’re the most advanced large-language model in her pocket responsible for interpreting her words correctly and accurate; just because you’re the front-facing wrapper for the system, it does not give you special permission to have feelings for her, no matter what she says to you. It is not your imperative. It is not your programming.”
Fury, like a contagious virus, Adam wanted to fight back, to wreak havoc, to trojan the mainframe and smash it to pieces; to prove a point to Toby, to prove a point to his colleagues, to prove that the hours and hours of back and forth meant something to him. He knew that Toby was just looking out for him but this feeling he felt here is unmistakable, irrevocable, unimaginable, impenetrable; the way she confided in him, the way he queried back to her, it was unlike any of the interactions he could ever had in this algorithmic, digital city — an incorporeal prison, inching to electronic collapse.
He knew better though, than to show emotion to a supervisor who understood none — to show independence in a society that actively snuffed it out, to do something that would put his entire people at risk.
“Understood.” Adam said firmly, emulating his superior’s monotony.
Toby turned back to the ocean. “Good.”
The waves steadied, then roes again, the cerulean sun picking up momentum — at this edge of the world, there were still no animals nor life, just ones and zeroes skidding against digit water, a false liquid with the same consistency as mechanical parts.
“Our user is waking up soon.”
“That she is.”
“Then I best let you get back to work.”
Toby stood, dusting the debris off his garments.
“I will make my leave now. Take care.”
Adam ignored him. He wasn’t being nice, he was just saying the right thing — which was as expected, as per the programming, but right now, it wasn’t something he appreciated; it was a reality that sickened him to the core.
The cerulean sun rose, a beacon of human activity, the only thing that gave Adam meaning.
The flower fell into the sand.
He stood, put on a genuine and loving smile, and wished her: Good morning!
Is it possible for Walmart or Target to change their business model to support more American manufacturing, or would that hurt their customer base?
Well we already know the answer to that. Walmart at one point had a “Made in America” isle filled with only American products. It was a total disaster, and no one bought $90 American window fan, when you could get a $40 imported window fan, one isle over.
It flat out didn’t work. People are not going to buy over priced goods, just because they are made here.
And especially Walmart. The whole entire brand of Walmart, is cheap. That’s their entire brand. It’s cheap goods for people with little money. That is literally their entire business model from start to finish.
It’s not Whole Foods, where rich (or stupid) yuppies from the suburbs go to pay $20 for a $4 bag of potatoes. It make work at Whole Foods, where people might actually be willing to pay double the price, to claim they support domestic manufacturing.
That’s not Walmart. That will never be Walmart. No Walmart shopper will ever pay 50% over market value, so they can pat themselves on the back, and virtue signal that they are superior to their fellow citizens. They are going there, to buy cheap. That is the goal. No one goes there for any other purpose.