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Given these conditions, we may be decades away from being able to fake another moon landing.

I’m like Rosamund Pike in the first act of "Gone Girl," when she was still a brunette.

Just because you don't need me to print those big Excel spreadsheets anymore doesn’t mean I don’t want my buttons fingered regularly.

I’m still in here. Waving my arms at the bathroom motion sensors to keep the lights on.

At one point, she pulled out a magical wand and goes, “Is this mine or yours?” I’m not even kidding.

Didn’t you read the fine print before signing electronically that you agree to the terms and services? Item eight in particular?

Not to worry, toots. Pull my string, turn me on, and I’ll get you through the night.

That’s all his bio needs. He is Jackson Pfeiffer, teller of stories. Our raconteur. Our scribe. Our Jackson.

It so happens, and to remind you, I have air conditioning, central air, in my condominium apartment. And Ethel's granddaugher is visiting.

Now it’s time to press that button. She’s watching you, but no pressure. You’ve done this a thousand times before.

Ma’am, your wariness is completely understandable, but I am genuinely asking about whether your refrigerator is operational.

I’d like to say I understand your pain, but how could I? The only terror I’ve experienced is watching everyone I ever loved die.