@the.world

I was standing outside in the hot wind as Rusty stared down all the feral cats that roam around my complex when I got to thinking: What’s this life about? I sat out there without any pants on in the thinker pose, wondering what life would be like without needing the money of other people. You know, beat your own food, build your own shelter, woo the ladies with your manly musk. But, I said to my dog, I said “Rusty… Even if I were in a magical mysterious time with pixies and shit, I’d be the guy killing all the pigs.” He just limped back to the house and I scratched the idea. No. I don’t wanna go back in time before 401ks and credit scores. Well, I mean, I do, but I’d rather fast forward this shit. I have to admit that bright lights and eletronic money appeal to me much more.

I wish I were in the AD Police. I mean, the cyberpunk scene is too much fun. The terminology is all crass and vulgar, everything looks like Portland Street in Hong Kong, the music is synth’d out Billy Idol, the girls are either bald or have mohawks, and the whole city’s connected to the infrastructures of invisible worlds running on energy and data. Straight up, our world would be better off either with no technology or nothing but. And since I can’t see myself living without Not4Chan, I’m opting for the latter. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a system where a good heart and merits earn you your right to lifewithout miles of red tape and forms but… the internet. So, instead, a future dystopian world where you’re plugged into the matrix is something I’m interested in.

Ponder this, choobs; you’re walking back to your beat-up Salvador ‘86 luxury muscle from the club, which looks exactly like the one from The Terminator, when some yakuza punk steps up to you and pulls out a fiberglass switchblade. He starts yammering on about how you were cozying up this girl and you just laugh. That’s when a green laser in the shape of a happy anime cloud appears on the guy’s forehead and he backs off because he knows what that means. Sometimes, these posergangs are packing and you don’t dick around with ‘em or you get zeroed if you get my drift. Just so happens that girl you were cozying with is the daughter of the president of the programming firm you’re a collar for. Saved your small life, pal, and that’s dandy, but now you owe the cat a favor. You sigh and continue walking to your car and the chump runs. You start the car with a retinal scan and the girl, revealing herself on the club’s rooftop, fires at your windshield. A tiny dart projects an ascii image of the girl’s number and a message that reads “I ain’t a cheap date.” Shit, you realize, that girl stole my creds. Shit, you wonder, I was probably better off with the yak and his flimsy box cutter.

Man, I’m in the mood to watch eXistenZ or read some Snow Crash right about now, but I should sleep. I got a 4th interview at Starbucks tomorrow I can’t be late for… or can I?