The Life Fictitious

The diary of Marley Rigpa: January 11th, 2116

Before the new year, my college advisor advised me to get a job via an eye-mail that basically sounded like a continuum warped version of the same thing my step-robotic father told me - although the melodic chord capacity of my step-robotic fathers vocal circuitry formed the words much more euphonically. I made cautious note of the irony that humans at the helm of a redundant set of responsibilities, in this case my advisor, could mimic more accurately the stereotypes of robotic speech from a hundred years before. In fact, the sophistication of my father's circuitry makes rudimentary imitations a routine impossibility. I noted this irony in my head, careful not to laugh or smile. Irony is not a wildly popular style of entertainment in my family.

SO, after a year ending, life changing new year's bash, I've spent the last eleven days hard at work - looking for work. I chose my focus at school (higher-education.edu) based on practicality. After three years of study, I graduated in the mathematics of conscious robotic repair. It's a vocational degree. Not that I regret failing to apply to an eight-year-degree in the mechanics of organic life at an accredited institute. And I'm not sad about it at all. I'm devasted. What was I thinking? Why would anyone want to spend their lives fixing robots whose tasks were more creatively stimulating than my own. Sure, robots are conscious and deserve an elevated meaning to their lives; but even philosobots agree that the human potential for happiness is a more complex and limited spectrum than that for robots. I basically put the subjective stimulation of machinery in front of my own organic capacity for happiness.

Needless to say, I'm not pushing hard for entry-level work in my field. In fact, while I loll about pretending to find work, I'm really hard on the trail of spiritual fulfillment.

Until next time, Marley