Life and times

You wake up and its Monday morning. You don't have a routine
anymore; your routine has you. Your floor pushes you up twenty times,
it cradles you through thirty sit-ups. Then the kitchen has its turn.
Your cereal eats you for breakfast; your coffee drinks you down. Your
car drives you to work at the usual time.

At about 8:30 while you're sitting in your five-by-five cubicle, the
coffee wakes you up, and the computer initializes you with your
preprogrammed start-up sequence. The thirteen-inch SVGA monitor sees
its words reflected in your eyes, between the intermittent flapping of
your otherwise useless eyelids.

Your chair sits you down as it wheels you around your five-by-five
cubicle, from one document which grabs your hand, willing itself to be
moved across the cubicle, to another.

Your computer initializes another of your preprogrammed subroutines,
and the halls of your "hive-complex" office building escort you and the
other drones to the feeding area. Your lunch utilizes your otherwise
useless appendages to deliver itself to your stomach where it will
process itself and convert itself into more excess fat. Your stale ham
sandwich, with a side of potato chips eat you, and your half pint
carton of milk drinks you down for good measure.

The clock on the wall instructs you to return to your five-by-five
cubicle before you're late. You obey it as always. The wall-clock's
word is law.

Your chair returns you to the sitting position and leads you back to
the computer so that it can stare at you for a few more hours until the
time comes for your car to drive you back to the pre-fabricated
structure that allows you to dwell within.

The welcome mat wipes your feet, then the doorknob turns your hand and
the door opens to let you inside. The answering machine initiates your
pre-programmed subroutine and its play button presses your right index
finger. The answering machine's word is law also, under the penalty of
death, the death of isolation from the outside world that owns
you.

The couch sits you down in front of the television set. The blank
screen stares into your eyes until the remote grabs your hand and
initializes a set of muscle and tendon movements to allow an its parent
appliance to be activated.

The football game watches itself reflected in your eyes for five point
eight seven seconds, then the hockey game watches itself reflected in
your eyes for six point three two seconds, then a cheesy rip-off of
"Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" watches itself reflected in your eyes
for two point five eight seconds, finally a test pattern watches itself
reflected in your eyes for one hour thirty-two minutes and forty-one
point zero nine seconds.

The best selling novel on your nearby coffee table picks up your hand
and reads you until the sun finishes setting on the day to which you
belonged.

Your worn-out slippers, which bought you nearly a year ago, walk you
back to the kitchen. The cabinets pull on your arms to open themselves,
and the private stash of junk food which purchased you at the
county-market one week ago, grabs your left hand. This sweet tasting
substance delivers itself to your otherwise useless mouth, chews you,
swallows, you and digests you. A glass of water drinks you then uses
you to rinse it out to rid itself of your foul taste.

Your clothes undress you for the night's slumber. The alarm clock,
which has owned you since grade school, sets you to awake in time for
your car to drive you to work in the morning. The bed to which you
belong lifts you onto a designer mattress guaranteed to provide the
sleeper with an extra sense of comfort, which bought you on sale about
two months ago.

You no longer live your life; your life lives you. You spend all your
time to build a life, which defines you as a person, until your life
begins to spend your time defining you.

You wake up and you're dead.