I Wrote the Book I Was Born to Write
Fifty years is a long time to prepare for a single sentence. I did not know I was preparing. I thought I was living, which I was, and writing, which I was, and teaching, which I was, and publishing, which I was. I thought the Fractional Fiction novels and the EleMenTs trilogy and the Prairie Voice reporting and the Human Meme episodes and the dramatic literature and the ASL linguistics and the cultural criticism were separate projects, separate impulses, separate rooms in the interior country I have been building since I was old enough to read. They were not separate. They were all rehearsals for this.

Incompetence has many feral fathers and its talent for boorishness is born in a variety of floral colors and indigent mothers — but when it comes to ruining Mother’s Day tomorrow — FTD barely edges out the DHL delivery service for the ultimate “I poop on you!” grand prize.
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