"You have received a new email."The sweet mechanical voice wakes me up from my coma. Unable to sit up or speak loud with my massive hangover, I muttered: "thank you Siri, the usual please." Five minutes later, my beloved French toast and Moroccan mint tea are delivered to the bed for my enjoyment. I could use some strawberries though. Today, April 25th, 2067, all is well.
I have never felt better about my life than this morning, though my head is still in drilling pain. Trying to recover memories of last night, I remember my name being called by the announcer when they gave out the award for international reporting, and the rest of it is just a blur—half because of my utmost excitement and half the tons of alcohol I poured down my stupid throat. Shit did I already lose my Pulitzer Prize Gold Medal already? No wait just kidding I can feel it under my sheets.
Who am I?