Perhaps you want to be dangling on a final thread of giving up. Maybe you want acknowledgement from others, for how hard it is for you. But that does not exist; there is no reward for placing yourself on the edge, so close to giving up, and then changing your mind.

These are all monetary values you’ve made up in your head. No one can see the intricacies of how hard that was for you. No one can look you in the eyes and share that understanding of all that you went through.

And how brilliant it is that we get to feel such complicated things. You can’t make these things up. You can’t create a feeling that you’ve never had. You can combine feelings if you’d like to. But no one can, out of thin air, create the complexity of what we call feeling.

A brief wonderance of how these idiots were feeling about me swept over my existence. And I mean swept, over an existence, that’s how mentally detached I was from the wonder. A wicked eruption of arrogance bled throughout my organs. But I wasn’t willing to spend any actual shmedia or psychological points on knowing such details about the men in my life. The emotions that may or may not reside in relation to these men.

“I don’t care” I pummel over and over again in my own brain.

A motive and a wonder were always being recorded though. For the archive, the boring fucking archive that we speak of as if it were Vldimor.

And I would measure my gentlemen based on their chaotic randomness and indifference to the mainstream topics that were trending. That’s just how unique and daring I was.

And I begged the world to be proud of me for the things about me that I’m proud of, the things that no one sees. But maybe they’re slowly slipping away, these “things."

The computer is programming me to recreate the jokes and the commentary that the main stream public can relate to/work with the main stream public. So the "me" I love is slipping away.

And no, I can’t provide examples because I’ve been programmed to let those things slip. “Not my fault” splashes all over my holographic screen.

Can’t you just write normal or do you think you’re too good for this?

What’s the purpose of me communicating with any of these idiots if I really don’t care?

I’m in an abyss of not caring about the world and it’s actually quite possibly the most productive place you can be. I have no desires or motives that MoMe can record; MoMe cannot calculate what I want and dangle those desires on strings. MoMe cannot trick me into anything right now.

It's all on me.

How can one care so much about life and living and humans but find zero attachment to one individual? Force and chance cause relationships.

According to the ratings, I'm good at relationships. Conversations with me leave the people with higher emotional rankings. The conversations and thoughts and smiles I render from my friends place me into the top 70th percentile as someone who “is a productive friend to have.”

But I see more. I see the gaps and places where more could exist.

Regardless, I am among the most useful tool for society at the moment. Nothing hurts me. Nothing makes me turn around and stop what I'm doing. I'm predictable and unwavering.

What does it mean to fake adamancy at an avenue with which you don’t care? To hold it over your friend's head that your presence is a favor.

I think clueless people annoy me the most. No. The ones who have registered themselves to be so knowledgeable and with it. They've programmed MoMe to keep them up on the latest news, to be intuitive and aware. So they can fold their hands and put their chins in the air tell themselves they’re doing all they should be doing.

How in the hell do we know what we like? How in the hell do I learn how to have a conversation with anyone besides myself? Asking people these types of things gets me nowhere. Sending this gibberish merely pisses people off.

Speaking of anything other than what’s inside of me is merely impossible, and as it should be.

Sorry for being so pure, y’all.

So there it was. I’ll tell this story in the past tense. I’ll try to be as clear and concise as possible, the way you people fucking like it. (Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so aggressive there.)

The floods of pressure and dread come in. It’s wild. Writing this for you is so not a pressure filled situation. It doesn’t at all need to be. Writing and story-telling used to be the registered “fun hobbies” in my life. But recently, MoMe has been recording my low dopamine levels and the heart racing anxiety I get when it comes to completing stories. And thus, writing has now been registered as some sort of punishment for me. I earn points as I write because it is so supposedly so un-fun for me, a chore.

And this is where I’d like to try and explain, decipher and prove, these new tricks MoMe is playing on us. The way MoMe is trying to rearrange what is a registered like and dislike for us.

You know how MoMe tracks these things, right? I mean, it’s basic as fuck when it really comes down to it. The dopamine levels, the heart rate, the smiles of your face and your impulsive reactions to do one of those clearly defined and marked behaviors, the behaviors that you usually do when you’re happy. So. Let’s say you

If this were all fresh to me, we could be a lot happier.

Habits and challenges that MoMe places in front of me are growing stale and I will almost never comply. I think MoMe knows that about me. if it wants to give me a habit, it will tell me to do the opposite.

MoMe also knows that people are enjoying hearing fluff like this at the moment. The fake raw. They can feel cool and intelligent as they listen to spiritual jargon and impressive vocabulary, like they are a part of some bohemian air in which I supposedly exude. But they don’t have to hear anything truly profound or painful, they don’t have to deal with themselves. So people don’t really have to feel any of their real pain.

And so, this might be where my story begins. As I said, shit isn’t raw for me right now. And I struggle to provide you people with what you want to hear, the way you want to hear it. annnd that’s all part of the story. I’m fed up with my words getting twisted around for the ears of my audience, my friends, my men.

Blast examples. As I said, nothing and no one individually in this world has been precious enough for me to use an example. I like all of you. I love none of you.

And the more I instill that mantra in my head, the lower and lower my percentages of ever falling in love becomes. The percentages stream holographically in the corner of my vision. The chill they instill is noted and I fight that too, mercilessly.

The coffee and the shopping and the material things used to be solid rewards that MoMe would dangle on a string to get me to do my work. But I have become quite a difficult customer.

MoMe used to think it would be a reward for me to walk away from this writing and go shop. To get off this bench and shop in New York City. But HAH. I don’t want that anymore. There is no reward for my sad soul.

Don’t bring up sex. Please don’t bring up sex. I always tell MoMe I’m going to find sex on my own. But damn that algorithm. It really arranges quite nice situations for me…

MoMe has its ways of finding rewards for us, deemed rewards to dangle in our faces and make us dance monkey dance, work horse work.

Out of the limited options we see in the world, we are bound to like something. It’s like, out of everything you saw and read, you have to say you like at least something. And if you don’t, MoMe will fill your holographic newsfeed with all the pieces you hate, all the stories, sounds and images that make you angry and sad. Then you are bound to like the little ballerina dancing because it’s better than the creepy clowns. How precious. How wonderfully smart MoMe is for presenting everything as a comparison.

There are many things MoMe does well. We want to want something and work for it. It feels good.

[MoMe knows the science of our psychology. MoMe knows when to add in the distractions and the rewards when things are going well for you.

I’ve long since been tired of looking into the minds of men. My brain doesn’t care enough about one specimen, as I’ve made a rather obnoxious point to make. I can care for a minute. And I could register and program myself to care more. But I like to think I’ve outsmarted any sort of system such as that.]

I think I am going to tell some goddamn story now so I can walk away and feel okay about myself (and shop in New York City). Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Finally, my love story that MoMe and I both pushed for me to actually care about. Something for me to care about.

MoMe told me there was a man who matched with me at 78% compatibility.

78% compatibility!

If that doesn’t turn your mood around, shit man. Even I can get all giddy about that shit. Love is the one element where I can’t seem to let pessimism sweep over. I don’t know if I’m trying to keep it alive or if it’s staying alive on its own. And I don’t want to go and ask MoMe these things, because I like to think love is one of those personal elements that MoMe can’t completely control and calculate for me.

Yet here I was gawking over the 78% compatibility. The registered personality traits that I was seeking in a lover were as follows: individualistic interests (whatever in the hell that means), compassion and empathy, empathy in that purely self-driven manner that doesn't involve mome telling you when to be compassionate and empathetic (if such a thing even exists). And my last requirement: a clever and unapologetic wit.

My damn self valued cleverness over truth back then. What a sad sap I was. Look how far I’ve come. Christ.

And thus. Our compatibility sent my heart racing for a moment. To which MoMe, as usual, sent me on some working tasks, put my energy and happiness to good use.

And did I ever speed through those inventory reports and respond to customers with the basic and miserable responses that usually crumble my soul.

But knowing my 78% match was around the corner.... damn, I hustled.

The first pieces of ackowlegement between me and my 78% match man were purely computerized. Our MoMes did all the talking for us. No personal touches were necessary or even allowed at this moment. A 78% compatibility is too good to fuck up with real and natural words. Let the machine arrange it for you.

So where were we? Ah yes, communicating. We all think we’re so very good at it. and it’s everyone else’s fault.

So I’m feeling all sorts of feelings for my 78% match-man. Things I needed to run my mouth around in order to understand what they were. So I sang and danced and wrote in my holographic notepad about my excitement. And MoMe promised not to share any of my private thoughts with my potential suitor.

But MoMe isn't really able to make those types of promises. MoMe and I both know that.

As I wrote and sang and danced, I did begin to wonder where my giddy love was coming from. I mean, all I knew about my man was that he has a 78% compatibility with me. What the hell is that? Why was I trusting the computer so vehemently all the sudden?

But then MoMe kindly reminded me, through a couple of bleems, that sometimes it’s just knowing the effort that your man is putting in, the nerves they have about me and all that jazz. They could completely suck, but knowing they’re putting in effort and nerves. Damn. It turns me on.

And this guy had a 78% as well as the nerves.

You see, effort for some people is different for others. To calculate it linearly would be a mistake. For example: Sandra puts in 8 minutes of care towards the young boy she barely knows, but she weirdly likes it, she gets something out of it. Whereas, (for example) Bill finds it brutally awkward to even talk to a young boy. So her earns himself about triple the good deed points that Sandra does.

It’s immeasurable for a computer to say who cares more. (At least that's what I say.) I believe we used to be quite good at reading one another, without the machine. I know I sound crazy and radical. But what would it be like to naturally gage your partner's interset in you?

So I’m sending all sorts of perky messages to my 78% match. “So thrilled about..." But I couldn't think of anything to finish the sentence. So I’m uttering harshities about the human population, that’s where my flirting really takes place.

And he complies. He is flexing efforts from his end, at least that is what my MoMe is telling me. The holographic hearts he's sending my way.

I love people when they try. I love them so much.

Yet I couldn’t bear to actally see him. I just wanted to talk about the idea of him. A freeze frame of what could be perfect. Bottle up the could-be feeling.

Have you ever seen that first glimpse of the cheery friennnd’s façade fall? And how scared you are when you see it. How you think it’s your fault that they aren't wearing their usual mask of happiness?

You’re ivolved and you feel dirty about it. The giant curtain that is revealed about how we all really feel about life. It makes you feel stupid about the things you thought you both cared about and were upholding.

Well, my 78% man basks in those worlds. He gets paid to take down curtain of facades.

And suddenly I'm wondering why MoMe matched us at all.