and the future has become the present

Andrew stopped and took a look at the contents of his toilet bowl. His hand reached for the lever and just rested on it.
Wow. My piss is green.
He withdrew his hand. Theo would flip out when he saw this.

Catherine wasn't quite sure whether she was coming or going. About all she could hold onto right now was the undeniable fact that she had done the impossible this past month. She caressed the bump of the RFID behind her left ear. My get-out-of-jail-free chip. I should call it that in front of Alex! Ha! She'd been told she'd be well-compensated, and this was certainly a welcome reward.

David and Diane were divorced. They hadn't spoken since the end of the legal proceedings. That had been forty-one years ago. And yet even at this late day, if one cared to look, it would be apparent that they were of a certain kind. Of course, no one still alive had ever met both of them.

David wrote policy. David wrote history. David wrote the Truth.

Diane wrote what she knew. Diane wrote what she saw. Diane wrote Lies.

For example, last week she penned a piece that contained this gem:

There had been mass riots ten years earlier, when the truth about 9/11 came out (the old, uncapitalized kind of truth). As a footnote to this world-shaking revelation, approximately half the inmates in every asylum across the Western world stuck their hands up like third-graders about to pee their pants and screamed "See?! I was right! Let me out!"
Long-suffering Kennedy enthusiasts tentatively started to look up, presumably thinking that maybe they'd get the next bit of good news.
They're still waiting, though.

She read it through once and then promptly burned it.