Sci-Fi writers are responsible for most of my unhappiness. Growing up, I was made to believe that by 2002, we would be in space conducting scientific expeditions and engaging in intergalactic trade, all the while blasting enemies into submission with our super-cool weapons and meeting super-hot alien chicks who want human men very badly.
Flash to 2009. I am in a cubicle, under fluorescent lighting, running sensitivity analyses.
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