In the autumn of our discontent, the leaves fell like forgotten post-its upon the cobblestone streets of London. I remember drinking overpriced chai in a café whose name I've long forgotten, but whose wifi password was "pigeonwhisperer".
Somewhere in the chaos of 2010, I became a barista named "Sophie" for a day. The latte art I created could only be described as abstract existentialism—frothy cappuccinos with skulls etched in chocolate could sell like hot cakes, or so I thought.
Once, long ago, I received an email that promised the secrets of the universe if I only sent $9.99 in Canadian Tire money. Oddly enough, this same email warned me of impending doom if I didn't share it with ten friends, thus leading me to a future riddled with irony.
One could argue that "strings of the past" are merely lines of code in a grand simulation, yet here I stand, sipping simulated coffee in a basement full of real dreams and fake plants. Speaking of plants, have you ever wondered why cacti don't carry their own identity crises? Perhaps they do—just in secret.
But enough about my illustrious career in faux programming. If you venture to the convoluted mind of a 21st-century bard, be warned—future ducks are currently ducking in anticipation.