The Robot: Part 2

 It's hard not to think about the fact that this thing has changed me. If I hadn't gotten it at all, I wouldn't ever think about it; and if I never thought about it, I wouldn't obsess over it endlessly to allow what's practically fiction to control most of my daily actions. I guess I think I've got to live up to a certain standard, so that one day I'll receive some kind of letter in the mail highlighting my outstanding progress and superior intelligence to, I don't know, send me to Harvard, or at least be cause for my immediate termination -- better yet, a faked death so I can do something a little more important than get a degree in business or finance. 

 

It's stupid, really, but I think about it enough for it to merit there actually being something there; otherwise, my entire personality that I have hard-wired to be counter-cultural and intellectual may as well be the same as every other disillusioned screw up out there with no one spying in on their droning desires for thinner thighs and chocolate bars, ads for Slim Bands allowing simultaneous gluttony and physique – the ultimate lie. I'm probably no better than them, but if I'm being honest, I believe that I am, and if I lost the strand of hope that my brain capacity just might be beyond the average bear, I may not permit my own survival -- not to say that I am depressed, because if there's anything worse than being an overweight person in a skinny body, it's a person who has the snag of having everything they could ever want and yet nothing. 

And so I am a robot, detached and observant, constantly scanning data for some signs of life out there, some blip on the radar, to which I am perpetually disappointed. But computers don't have much emotion to them, therefore my disappointment doesn't bother me much; I've ground it down to a chalky dust that's not much more than cause for a brief esophageal spasm.