Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The Return - March 3, 2117


Long time no write. What's with that? I've been busy and I hope your circuits have not been sitting idly for an uncomfortable amount of time. Are you rusty? Relaxed? Is a year a long time to your automated consciousness?

I digress; and soon, I will look to egress. However, I feel I must update your solar-powered interface to reflect the changes in my life, just in case I am crowned a winner of the Williamsburg Prize of Nobel Economics in Physics or some other equally prestigious endeavor; conversely, in case my name goes down in infamy as the prominent member of a gang of cyber-thieves for having perpetrated one of the many thought-crimes as will surely be legislated into existence, in any minute, of any day now. I, thusly, update thee.

When my voice last graced your audio circuitry; and your vocal-recognition and prose-enhancing software recorded and enhanced my most deep and penitent thoughts, I still lived under the neglectful gaze of my mother and her robotic step father. My mother, as you will recall, was on her way to being fully automated, and she has long since crested that zenith; no longer does she need a separate unit to dispense her martinis in moderation for she need only make a request to her moderation-bypassable software version 2.0. (The publisher of the moderation software with bypassability modification assures the moderatation-seeking public that a version 3.0 software will be out with an option to remove the option for bypassibility.) Regardless, my mother now serves her own drinks with a kind of disinterested alacrity and uses the extra downtime to listen to the whirring of the clean-bot units tidying up after she crashes into things.

My Step-Robotic father still maintains the 6-level condone unit despite the dramatic uptick in business since the planetary economy recovered; but, and who but He knows what that man-bot's robotic desires entail, he is rarely to be found anymore by my mother's side when she has made liberal use of her moderation software. Rumor on the thought-boards maintain that he has initiated a new family unit (and, apparently, even has a few live, organic dogs) on the opposite side of the continental transport zip. But, he still pays for my mother's slow descent into total circuitry destruction, so I can't begrudge the robo-fellow.

I moved out of the condone after I accepted a position sharpening maintenance spanners during the busy season at a small shop near the interplanet zip. My humility had been swelling into the temperate, desperate zone ever since I turned down the job repairing server-bots at the diner. Since then, I had maintained a lively night-oriented existence selling thought-forum sound bites at parties for the wealthy class of non-politician adjacents whom "appreciated my proletariat mendacity." That job basically consisted of exchanging faux-wit for tips: a good gig but a little heavy on the sycophant side of things, and difficult for maintaining the regular lifestyle of sunlight absorption.

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