Dystopian Dispatches From Self-Service Nation

In which sisters are doin' it for themselves

the alternative is to have no account, but that wouldn’t feed your narcissism

I had to reset my password before I could read my death sentence.

Or, as fate would have it, the lack thereof. A little bit ago I had that must-have fashion accessory of the newly late-middle-aged: a trio of biopsies. “Gonna have to let you know on this stuff,” I was told. “You’…