I'm three decades into life. I have a house now. School is long over. Homework is now literally work on my home. And yet, I still find myself starting the weekend's planned home repair or improvement at 10pm on Sunday evening.
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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.