Luckily for writers - and unluckily for history - every scientific idea creates human conflict.

People only worry about the uncanny for about a week; that's the end of their attention span. After that, suspicions turn into shtick.

A rat called Possible New Strain was sitting under a spaghetti strainer held down with a pile of journalism textbooks, saying rude things in rat-speak.

That was the whole point of being special: You existed to make sure everyone else behaved, but that didn't mean YOU had to.

High school wasn't a trial by fire or some ordeal that had to be survived. It was all a big joke. You just had to provide the laugh track.

The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit.

I have no formal training as a writer at all, not even a single English class in college.