Something crackled out of the corner of my eye, and I found myself looking into my own eyes. Crow’s feet, middle-aged spread, and it seemed I was apparently doomed to another quarter century of bad hair days and no fashion sense.
But I still had my patented sardonic grin, as my future self flashed up something white.
“Not pictures,” I moaned.
No. It was an index card. My handwriting didn’t seem to have improved either. I’d scrawled, “IT HASN’T BEEN DULL.”
I shrugged at me and disappeared.
It hasn’t been dull.
Cool. I can live with that.