Hrm. Expatriation at Plastic. The United States sucks. Do we just leave it before it becomes a complete cesspool, or do we try to save it?
At least, in dreams, we can take certain really weird events in stride, eh?
What happens when you finally learn the truth about the George Bush Mood Ring? I hope, for the love of god, we learn it soon.
I tried to make the world a better place, but no-one cared. Maybe no-one likes this type of fiction? It seems a pretty reasonable request that you donate money to EFF, FSF, or ACLU after reading my story... Maybe it's unreasonable.
All these definite signs of youth are genius lies of nature. My body sheds age and scars and tattooes and sickness and disease. It sheds these things and leaves them behind. Every day, a little bit of youth sneaks up from deep inside me and hucks off a layer of aging. I do not look a day older than twenty-five. I certainly do not look like I've been living since America was a colony of England.
I have perpetual youth, but that is almost the extent of what I have. I have no long-term friends. I have no culture to associate with. I have no history. None of us have history. We can't keep books. We're always hiding from the humans among the humans, and books encumber us and give the humans too much information about us.
I know that we did keep books a long time ago, in dusty libraries kept deep inside caves, far from the human's grasp. But humans aren't simply afraid of everything unusual. They're afraid, yes, but they're resourceful, too. I have visions... visions of angry villagers carrying torches and pitchforks, storming into a vampire library through its narrow rocky entrance, stabbing me and leaving me for dead, tearing down shelves, and burning the books. These are real memories, but not mine. They belong to my mother.