I'm told that tomorrow, all the automobiles will vanish. We wake up and they'll be gone. No foul play, no hassle, just gone. In the driveway will sit neat little piles of spare change from the ashtray and a little row of ice scrapers and snow brushes from under the seats.

The cars will not be coming back. There will be no investigation. Nothing will be said about this awful time going forward. Instead, everyone will get right to it: beating each other about the head and neck. Those beaten into submission will carry the victors around on their backs and formally give up on their dreams once and for all.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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