Ever since I was little, I wanted to be a robot. I put boxes on my head and said "beep boop" when my mom asked me what I wanted for breakfast.
I longed for the day I wouldn't have to "take off that stupid robot costume and ask for pancakes like a human being" and could be nourished by electricity.
In fifth grade, I noticed a bit of exposed wire poking out of a radio, and curiosity overtook me. I pierced my skin and tried to insert the wire inside my vein.
I was a wimp, and I cried before I got very far.
I was bad at school, terrible attention span, not very friendly or special. I was lonely. Geeky, but not smart. Skinny but unattractive.
I withdrew into drugs, pain pills and finally needles in my skin, shooting pure pleasure into my brain. Lost in a high, I wasn't chained to my limited mind and my unappealing body.
I was one with the universe.
I had no money and no prospects when I met the man who smiled at me. He was bright-eyed, bearded, quick-witted.
He talked fast about an opportunity for me, an experiment that would pay enough to keep me happy forever. I knew I was being conned. I was a junkie, but not a fool.
I knew I could go missing and no one would miss me. I knew I was worthless. But I needed that money. I wanted to be high and happy forever.
It's been two weeks without drugs in my system, but I've been spared the pain of withdrawal. Without organs, without blood, without a fleshy, flimsy brain there's nothing to detox.
I thought when I was a child that being mechanical would make me feel powerful.
I imagined destroying cars, or wooing lovers, or rocketing to the Presidency with my shrewd, impossible computerized mind.
It's been a week since I left the facility, with a huge wad of cash as promised. It's enough to keep somebody happy forever, I guess. I don't know what to spend it on.
I don't need drugs, or food, or love. I don't need anything. I don't want anything. I don't feel happy or powerful. I don't feel anything.