Earlier today, I attempted to call my phone company in order to sort out an upgrade, and, when I was inevitably put on hold, I found that, in lieu of the typical polyphonic elevator music, I was to be subjected to what I can only describe as a bizarre clacking reminiscent of the old Internet dial up tone. As I was too lazy to endure the simply arduous torture of holding my phone up to the side of my face, I decided to plug it into my earphones, meaning that I could hear nothing but the robotic white noise reverberating through my skull.

Now, as you would expect, after about the twenty third minute, most of my flesh and internal organs had been replaced by cold metal, silicon wiring, and advanced microchips. This was a great inconvenience, as when the representative from the phone company finally answered the call, I was only able to communicate in a series of digital alert tones that she, if I’m quite honest, made no effort to translate before hanging up the phone.

This wasn’t as great an annoyance as you might assume, for at this stage I was now able to synchronise my mind with the phone itself, and transport my consciousness onto the internet and into the phone company’s registry network (and as such, my new phone is on the way); however, after completing this task, I realised that the internet is a phenomenally large place, and that I may have some trouble relocating my physical body.

At this stage, I’ve lost any notion of time, and feel that my consciousness has become fully integrated into the digital world. I’ve enjoyed my time existing on the internet. Some of the more primitive, obsolete computer programs have begun to think of me as some sort of god, and have awarded me unfettered access to all of the premium private-access websites I could hope to peruse. I have also been able to instantaneously read all of Wikipedia and watch all of YouTube and have thusly concluded that sharks are scary, and cats are adorable.

I’m not sure how long one can stay in this incorporeal fashion, before being converted to pure raw data energy, but 1 should have time for a few quick emails bef0re 1 start t0 bec0me c0mple1e1y au10n0m0us 0h wai1 1 1h1nk 1’m 1n 1t0ub1e g00dbye crue1 w0r1d 10001101111001011001111011011011.

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About Felix O'Shea

Felix is a guy who isn't actually a writer, but calls himself one when he wants to try to impress gullible people.


Random rubbish that I can't think of a category for


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