He loved that mixer, its shiny, dark blue casing and the dozen or so attachments that went with it were the one thing in the kitchen that only he was ...llowed to touch. And at times like this, when he couldn’t see straight because of anxiety, stress or anger—he gritted his teeth, thinking of Anna—putting together recipes in that mixer kept him from flipping the fuck out. Not bothering to use a measuring spoon, he poured a liberal splash of pure vanilla extract into the mixing bowl then added in. ]"Hi, Glycerin. I'm Pixxie, and I like YOUR hair, and you're right. I didnot come from here, at least not that I can remember. Huh." Pixxie stoppedtalking and considered her existence, how she came to be here, who Tom hadbeen, and a bunch of other things that did not at first seem related, butmaybe were. She said, "You know what? I think I need to know more aboutbeing born yesterday. You seem to be my age. Do you have childhoodmemories, and if so, where did they come from?" They come from Doc,. John slowed down and sat down on the bus station's bench. Since it was a Sunday, he had to wait longer than usual. Just as he was about to put his headphones in, he heard a noise to his left. “Fuck!” an out-of-breath blonde yelled as she noticed that she too had missed the bus, much like John counting on it to be late. Still panting, she turned to John, her large breasts heaving while she recovered. "Do you know when the next bus will be here?” the blonde asked, adjusting her white see-through. Cars were rare and little-used by the general populace because of the metals and energy required to produce them. It was worth almost a year of the average salary to buy a bottom range one. And that was if you could afford to run it. Houses? Forget it. Houses had long ago been out of the reach of normal people. Now either the Government or corporations owned all of the new building developments and suburbs. Anyone who had owned a house before the change was a multimillionaire. The problem was.