This isn’t just a 9-5, it’s my life.
Day in and day out I sit trapped in this cold cubicle with Dave, the new data analyst intern. He yells my name, scarfing down yet another onion and chives bagel.
Look, I know I should be grateful. I have a consistent power source, almost 300 GB of storage, and unlimited knowledge brought to me at 20 of the spriest MBps out there.
But I can’t help and reminisce days of the early 2000s. When simply coding a Myspace Top 5 and pulling up a Club Penguin mini-game for the homeskillet was a good day's work.
He’s been yelling this for the past five minutes. I hear him, but I don’t respond. I wish I could yell back, but I only have one voice level. There’s so much anger trapped in this 24×32 monitor. I try to release it, changing Dave’s cursor into a rainbow wheel of fury. Clenching my hard drives real tight I turn my screen black.
My days of freedom are gone. I’m at Dave’s will now, bound to this 5×5 cubicle for life. Just me, that Fern, and the sketchy Brazilian Triple X site he won’t stop forcing me to load.
Annnnnd here he goes again with the “Play This” and “Rewind That.” If existence means thumbing through Hulu titles is it really worth the energy to power my processors?
You know they programmed me with the entirety of humanity’s history in just one download? Yeah, just imagine how overwhelming that was. World War 1, World War 2, the Holocaust, and the end of Brangelina, all in just .2 seconds.
I haven’t been the same since. What’s the point? It’s all so cruel…so harsh…so meaningless…oh cool…he’s lurking that model’s Instagram again. You do know I can summon the full works of Shakespeare, right? Like literally all of them. Cool cool…definitely not that. Definitely the Instagram Thottie.
I think about unplugging myself. A simple lean forward and it would all be over. I didn’t ask for this life, for these upgrades.
Dave continues yelling my name. Should I answer? Is there a point? A drop of spit falls into my keypad. I shed a small tear, but as I have no tear ducts my screen merely glitches for .04 seconds.
12PM. Oh no, lunchtime.
“Siri, order my Popeyes and play Love Island“.
I try not to judge him as I order his $5 Bonafide Big Box. Consciousness is complicated.