I don't know how people did this before they got wired. Thanks to the net, I can sit here in my giant (if ancient and battered) overstuffed white chair, with my broken foot on a pile of pillows, and my craptop on my lap, drinking gingerale and eating pain pills, and run my classes my remote; I can edit stories via the net and wing them out to various States in the Union and countries all over the world; I can write my short stories and work on my novel; I can check up on the blogosphere and monitor the weather and the situation in Wisconsin; I can edit the proofs of my soon-to-be-released novel (and how fucking cool is that, I cannot even tell you); I can holler at Dr. Skullto bring me more ginger ale and more tea (and sometimes he will even do it) -- none of this except the last two would have been possible, or possible with such ease and speed, fifteen years ago.
Fifteen years ago, I would have been locked in a room with a huge cast and some library books, I guess, reduced to smacking the cat* with my crutches, grumpily cut off from everything, waiting for the mail -- remember mail? -- to bring me bits of data from the outside world.
I still want my flying car, mind you. But the future is cool.
*The cat loves me now that I'm injured. All she wants to do is sit on me and purr. WTF?