Life Tracker Page #2

All right, check this out.

Says, "not enough information

"exists to prove the accuracy

"of such a tool.

"Foods, drugs,

"medical processes,

"and new technologies all

"have to be rigorously tested

"before public use.

"It is a government's

"responsibility

to protect its citizens."

Uh-huh.

Wait.

Wait a minute.

You see that?

Wait a minute.

So, this information

is in my own blood

and I'm not allowed

to know about it?

Anything more

than a glorified hotel room,

you know, as an apartment.

No offense, dil.

None taken.

And I drive 1987 Nissan

pickup truck

with 290,000 Miles on it, okay?

I rely on you guys for weed.

I don't own squat.

And now I don't even

own my DNA?

Pretty much.

Where are you going?

Welcome to America, buddy.

My wonderful boyfriend

didn't get me a beer.

You didn't say

you wanted one.

Why they would

want this stopped.

Here we go.

No, I'm serious.

Okay.

What if Mr. walk the walk,

talk the talk.

Me?

You.

Mr. schmooze over here

found out that

all of his ass kissing

and networking functions

were completely pointless

because he found out

from his print

that he was going

to get cancer

and he was going to die

in a year?

What then?

Why not just give up?

Why not just,

bam, end it early?

Oh, now,

that's some deep sh*t

we're talking

about Scott here.

It's not that deep.

Oh, cheers.

Ouch.

Oh, dang, baby.

You are sexy

when you're feisty.

Careful though.

You might confuse

Drake's sexuality.

Just let me suck it once

and I promise you'll like it,

buddy.

It's not going to suck itself.

Let's go.

Okay, change the subject.

Banana.

Where did you even

get that from?

But what about the good

that it could do?

What about the other side

of the coin?

This is your life,

Dillon Smith.

Oh, great.

A lonesome life

behind his camera,

a dead end day job

stuck in mediocrity,

never finishing a project

he starts,

but he gets his print read,

finds out he's going to be

hugely successful,

have ten awesome children.

Just ten?

And die happy in old age

while receiving head

from 18-year-old

Brazilian triplets.

Whoo!

Oh, brother.

What can you do?

This information could give

him the confidence he needs

to come out of his shell

and go after his dream.

You realize I have the power

to evict you, right?

Yes, but at least

the rent I pay you

comes from working in a field

I went to school for.

Oh, burn.

Damn.

Wait, hold on a second.

I don't think that

this print thing is going

to be able to tell you

if you're going to be happy

or not though, right?

Happiness produces hormones.

Can't that be measured?

Yeah, he's got a point

right there.

Just saying.

Why do you always

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