This is probably the very worst thing you could bring up at a dinner party. I mean, it's not like the future doesn't matter. Of course it matters! It matters to your kids and their kids and the survivors of global warming and overpopulation and the other 12 apocalypses and anyone who got away before the sun blew up. Or probably just robots. So you'd better be careful where you toss that plastic wrapper. It could get swallowed by a seagull, and when the poor bird chokes in mid-air and lands on the sidewalk, that old man who always walks 5 miles in the morning will find it and call the Animal Rescue League, and they'll have to do a biopsy to find the little cellophane culprit, all wadded up and covered in half-digested french fries, which happens to be the exact slimy metaphor that a not-so-well-known, living-off-of-ramen-and-tuna-salad community college student poet was grasping at to finish his master work, as he watched it all on the evening news. It would be the poem that shakes the world by the seam of its britches, bringing tears to the eyes of teenage moms and acquitted homophobic murderers alike.

I know, that was a little rough, but I'm sorry, I couldn't do the whole story justice even if I tried. Right now I really need to go reorganize my scarf collection. My sister would know what I'm talking about.

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