My Cardboard Balcony

Autopilot by Belinda Roddie that handy little tool you could use when you're too drunk to drive, and when you crash into a nearby elm just beside the high school, and the candy lights emerge, you can blame it all on technology.

The configuration on the computer had gone completely awry, the display screen flickering in and out between a picture of a Jack Russell terrier and a shot of my boyfriend and me on the beach. As I fidgeted with the spazzy mouse, my dad came over and nudged me in the arm. "Here, hon," he muttered. "Let me see what I can do." "Dad," I said, "you know less about computers than I do."