Ever wanted to fall in love with a robot? Good news. You’ve already begun to. Siri is your lover. The sweet voice of your GPS leaves you starstruck. Oh, the sadness is crushing. You feel the cracks of your lover’s screen like they are daggers slicing through your flesh. You cannot live without your love, and your tears of Europium fall in vain when the depths of a puddle steal the glow of your reason to survive. The beings around you of simple bones and blood can never replace the intricate wires of desire that your device incites within you. Your robot is your soul mate, and you will live together in ecstasy until the warranty expires.
Have you ever wanted to be a robot? Good news, dear Robot. It’s too late, you have become one. Your wires are melded to your hand. Your eyes see only through the camera on your iPod screen. Head to toe, you are the iPod on shuffle, a laptop searching, a copy of reality being transferred to pixels and uploaded to an algorithm. To get people to pay the slightest bit of attention to you, you have become Robot. Your worth is determined by your likes and followers. You belong to the cult of networking--and the Kool-Aid you sip is low battery power.
Turn off your Kindle before you become the words on this page.
Your eyes have turned to the power buttons of your machines. Your fingers are the gears and well-oiled joints of the future. Your dreams come from the sleep, plugged into the wall outlet. Your brain was manufactured by slave labor in China.
Are you scared yet? Are your gears and joints trembling as you clutch the device off of which you read these words?
Of course not. Robots feel no fear.
Ever wanted to live in a society of robots, a desolate place of screens, pixels, copies, hyperreality? Good news. You are. Carefully, dear Robot, unglue your eyes from the glorious screen, which is basking your face in the glow of your soul. Look around. The other robots are around you, encoded with algorithms. They are the Zombies, hailing the technological apocalypse. Welcome to the new age of Post-post-modernism.
They are all just like you, Robot. They are machines. They are living in pixels, procreating with the assembly line in Chengdu. Their gears are just like yours, dear Robot. Their blank stares reflect in darkened plasma screens, dead except to serve. We are a blind society of robots, and only Google glasses can correct our vision.
Look back down, my dear Robot. Cry your robot tears of petroleum byproducts, because never again will you be a flesh being.
Siri, tell me you love me.
I am the androids all around us.