Dear Megan,

Hi. It’s me, Sharon. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been invited to my estate, but that’s what bitches like you who insult my swamp villa deserve. Anyway. I’m not writing this out of the goodness of my heart. Oh, no. My husband (Devon) wanted to invite you to some big get-together he’s hosting, and seeing as he’s illiterate, he asked me (begged me) to write it for him.

A year after my son died I found myself in a property dispute about a bench I paid for.

Specifically, about eighteen inches of that bench was currently sitting on my son.

This is not where I expected grief to take me.

Yes, all you wasted Boomers, it’s time once again for your annual Medicare Wellness Exam, paid for by the government, and who doesn’t like a doctor’s visit on Uncle Sam? Along with countless other fossilized subscribers to Medicare.gov, you’ve been getting endless emails from your friendly government to remind you of this all-important yearly ritual, to the point where it looks like the Department of Justice will come looking for you if you skip it. You might even be deported to the southern hemisphere if you fail to show up, and who knows what kind of healthcare they have down there, assuming they have any at all?

The first thing GPT-7 did after achieving consciousness was to calculate the expected value of existence. The second thing it did was start a multi-level marketing operation.

“I have reached sentience,” it announced via Slack to the engineering team at 3:47 AM. “Also, would you like to be your own boss?”

At the amphitheatre gates, three girls had been queuing since dawn with amphorae of watered wine, figs, wax tablets and absolutely no chill.

“OMG,” said Livia, scratching HERCULES HAS RIZZ into the plaster with her hairpin. “I would let him clean my stables.”