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tw: sexual themes, physical harm, mention of suicide

“Hello, baby. I am model SR-D1045. I exist to fulfill your every sexual desire. Setting mode enabled. What would you like to call me? Honey? Bitch? Waifu?”

Birthrate down 72% nationwide (USA). Marriage rate down 85%. Adam and Eve online sex store stock value up 200%. Sex machines as commonly owned as the iPhone 85X+. At least, these are projected outcomes by 2055, according to data experts, Catholics, memes…

“What would you like me to call you? Daddy? Lover? Master?”

85% off Desmond-brand AI robots this past holiday season. Not because the Desmond Company is going out of business. Desmond is a leader in the sex industry. The sex industry is a leader in commercial fantasy.

SR-D1045 was a gift from my best friend.

“My face and skin tone can morph to look like any girl you want. Who do you want me to look like? A celebrity? Your crush? Your mother?”

I follow Penny Abrams, a Jewish girl I had a crush on in 11th grade, on all social media platforms.

Conspiracy theory forums tout the fall of civilization will not be gradual. There will not be clues, or if there are clues those clues will misdirect, i.e. point to climate change, capitalism, or war as the potential culprit for human demise. The forums dub our real, incomprehensible end

CALAMITY.

The sudden explosion of the sun. A black hole that swallows the planned. An airborne plague that spreads so fast we won’t have time to understand it. Nuclear holocaust by a genocidal AI that is not a sex robot.

“Fantastic.”

SR-D1045—now named Penny—gifted to me by my best friend as a joke. I was cut in half in a forklift accident. Everything from the waist downward is missing. I have not penis or ass. I cannot enjoy Penny as she was intended, yet this was the intention of the purchase.

“For an additional $199.99, you can increase my breast size from a D-cup to an H-cup.”

The upgrade costs for on-sale sex bots have also been significantly reduced. Meanwhile, a carton of twelve eggs costs twenty dollars. The price of a new vehicle has reached the six-figure mark. Homeownership is only achievable for royalty and landlords purchasing more property to rent to struggling families. Tax cuts for the ultrarich remains a prerequisite for political incumbents to remain in office.

The Desmond Company—a lazily chosen company name if there ever was one, however they understand better than most that to sell products people don’t need, those products need to be affordable. And yet one can argue that the purchase and general upkeep of a Desmond sex robot is financially smarter than dating a real person, not to mention the accumulated/reoccurring costs of a wedding, anniversary gifts, birthday gifts, Valentine’s Day, raising a child or children (heaven forbid), etc.

Penny’s touch feels just as real as any woman I’ve ever been with.

“Right there.”

I did not pass out when the forklift skewered me, severing my hips and legs from the rest of me. I stayed awake as the doctors sewed me up to keep my organs inside. My entire family lives in another state. When I moved, my mother feared I’d die alone. I didn’t take her seriously then.

Speculation on

CALAMITY

suggests that the end of the human race will be so sudden that our brains won’t have time to register pain or anguish. It will be like flicking off a light switch. Most extreme theories claim that there will be notable pain and anguish, only everyone will experience this at once, on a global scale. Glowing red fissures releasing hell demons bents on slaughtering all life, or the rise of a zombie apocalypse minus any plot that demonstrates human resilience. A sweeping, violent reckoning.

There is something peaceful in the idea of catastrophe being unavoidable. Not one’s fault.

Not my fault.

I miss my legs. I miss my dick. I am useless to someone who can bear children. Penny’s love is not earned or deserved, yet it is mine.

“That’s my spot, baby.”

Penny looks nearly identical to the Penny from high school. Similar black shirt with the sleeves rolled up her forearms. Same long red skirt over noir pantyhose over Paris boots. Same flowy chestnut hair to cover her collarbones. Same emerald-colored eyes, pale skin, and braces. The breasts don’t match what I remember; each tit is twice the size of her head. Including tax, they costed $217. Sex robot height cannot be edited.

39.9 per 100,000 people commit suicide. Financial reasons are to blame. This statistic is partially made up of depressed social media users under the age of 40 who took their own life despite the common knowledge that the luxurious lifestyles displayed by internet influencers are fabricated. Assistant suicide among the elderly and those suffering from debilitating or life-threatening injuries/illnesses have increased by 41% over the past two decades. The medical field operates under the outdated notion that the average citizen will find a way to pay their tuition-level bills when a loved one is involved. Heartbreakingly, this is not the case. A decent human being will not cling to a fragile life knowing it will cause their loved ones to take on crippling debt.

Assistant suicide is forced upon patients by their families in some cases.

Mystery #1: Why have I not tried to kill myself?

I’ve once considered skateboarding. A torso launching up a half-pipe. It would look hilarious. I would be famous. Seems like too much work, actually.

Penny cannot drive me to a skatepark or help me onto a board. Like a whore, she is useless in every way nonsexual. This is obvious—she’s a literal sex robot—but disappointing, nonetheless. A teenager with long legs and round, perky, bouncy, comically humongous breasts. Too distracting to be in public.

I cannot jump. I cannot shift my weight. I am a torso with a head and arms attached. I have to forgive myself for this.

“Is it time for me to spit in your mouth today? Okay, baby, open wiiiiide.”

Desmond-brand sex robots have an intricate fluid system that is safe to swallow.

In season 3 episode 8 of Rick and Morty titled “Morty’s Mind Blowers,” there is a scene in which squirrels are depicted secretly controlling world governments in an alternate universe. This is not a fear I experience alone. The same conspiracy forums from before have created memes depicting a squirrel nibbling on a walnut that looks like to globe, and soldier squirrels with guns forcing chained humans into concentration camps. Comments on such memes find the idea of squirrel domination amusing. A joke. All jokes have some truth to them. Nothing is impossible. The gray squirrel population exceeds 65,000,000 in the United States alone, while the world grieves the recent extinctions of the leopard, the penguin, and the Tapanuli orangutan.

It is naïve to believe that squirrels will cause or lead to

CALAMITY,

however. By its definition,

CALAMITY

cannot be predicted, anticipated, or correlated with the actions of intellectual organisms, despite the relentless, malicious efforts of squirrels, CEOs, terrorist organizations, women, and any other groups wrestling for power.

Mystery #2: Where does my food go when I eat it?

I position Penny upside down on the floor, on her neck, her back leaning against the side of my bed, completely naked. I’m staring down at her from between her spread legs. She says things like “Fantastic.” “Right there.” “That’s my spot, baby.” Her taste can be adjusted. It is strawberry today. Desmond-brand sex robots can only taste like various flavors of candy. Not steak or pizza or cheese. That would be weird.

She moans to arouse me, if I could be aroused. I am bored. Lonely, even. I cannot work, and survive off money rewarded in the lawsuit from the accident. My best friend would laugh at me if he’d ever see me try to please a sex robot, laugh then shake his head in pity. The jerk.

I eat more than just Penny. I eat real food. Very little of it, but still. I do not convert what I intake to urine or poop. It is as if my foods travel through my digestion tract into an alternate dimension.

Beyoncé famously stated in an interview with Sean Evans that recreational psychedelics have allowed her to peak into planes of existence present all around us yet invisible to the human eye. My stomach must be connected this invisible plane, where my food goes.

Mystery #3: When is

CALAMITY?

Without knowing what

CALAMITY

is, there’s no way to know when

CALAMITY

will take place. But I fear that what Beyoncé sees, and my stomach is—I assume—connected to, will eventually eradicate all life on Earth. More questions arise. What lives in this mysterious plane, if anything at all? How will the plane spill into our normal world (I cannot help but believe this to be inevitable)? Dread fills my mind the more I think that

CALAMITY

will occur in my lifetime.

The Desmond Company recognized that, despite lingering questions of the world’s end, our collective slow death by worsening quality of life is an unquestionable fact. Their 85% discount of AI sex robots this past December was generous. Charitable. Benevolent.

Orgasming has replaced Netflix as America’s favorite pastime, according to the latest issue of The New York Times.

My only wish in this life is to have moved away from the forklift in time.

I am half a man.

I have died before my death. What is left of me survives the end of all things within Penny’s bosom.

“Fantastic.”