by K. S. O'Neill
Maddy's working a half-day even though it's Friday. She gives me a smooch and looks sideways at the cameras in the kitchen.
"They're off!" I tell her, rolling my eyes a bit.
She grins at me and leaves. She's in a good mood; we made bank last night. She doesn't mind cameras in the bedroom, and we play it up a little. Why not? We look good; we're good at it. Who cares? But for her cameras in the kitchen and the living room are different, so they usually stay off.
It's too bad; Danny's three, Caroline's thirteen. And we have a cute little spaniel, too. Prime demographics, active and charming. Lots of market.
I view the mail while the kids eat breakfast. A note from my Mom in Texas, starting her fifth marriage at 92. Typical. Old, horny, smart, rich, sentimental. Sleeps one hour a night. Investments across the world, manages them herself. Spends hours downstreaming vidya, watching kids and animals and nature shows and sex. No sense of boundaries--her BuyShare file is totally public. Thanks Mom, good to know what you think of the latest VibroSeat, that's great.
And she's getting healthier. Hell, she may never die. None of us may ever die of natural causes again. So they retire and pile up, more of them every day, investing money, controlling more and more of the economy, and gobbling up entertainment.
We're the entertainment.