If I live to be an old woman, I’m going to wear striped stockings and heart-shaped sunglasses, and I’ll incorporate lime green into my wardrobe all the time. I’ll knit lots of hats and I’ll tell my secrets to spiders. I’ll write books for as long as I’m able. And when I’m no longer able, I’ll write short stories. I’ll write things on napkins and on walls, and they’ll become gradually less coherent. I’ll write on my arms and in the fog on the mirrors. And when I die, someone new will move into my house, and they’ll have a hell of a time painting over the silly things I sharpied on the walls. They’ll spend days hauling away the boxes of absurd trinkets and clothes that are inappropriate for an old woman. Maybe they’ll get curious and look me up on the internet, and they’ll find my books and they’ll read them. They’ll say, “This makes no sense” and they’ll donate them to the library or leave them in an airport bathroom—whatever the etiquette is in the future. Maybe they’ll have children, and the children will write book reports about the crazy old lady who lived in this house before them. The book report will say, “She wrote books about the future, which is funny, because this is the future now.” Then I suppose they’ll hop on their hoverboards and scooter home so they can feed their telepathic rabbit, Snowball. I forgot to mention that rabbits have telepathy in the future.