On the drive home from dropping the kids off at my in-laws for the afternoon, I was talking to my best friend on the phone. We were catching up after not having spoken for a while like you do when you’ve both had a bunch of babies.
“How’re the kids?”
“What have you guys been doing lately?”
“Are you excited about X/Y/Z?”
I asked about her sister-in-law, who underwent transplant surgery recently. She is thriving, and we both marveled over modern medicine. How crazy it was that she was alive because another person’s organ was hers now. We got talking about the endless possibilities for medical advancements in our lifetime.
So I asked her if she ever remembers that she’s going to die one day and freaks the hell out for a minute.
What? Just me? Cool.
About 3-4 times a week, I remember I am going to die, and have a few moments of panic. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. I imagine being super old and sassy and holding onto all my mental faculties, Cthulhu willing. But I remember that a day will come when my kids will put me in the dirt and then fight over all my good shit.
But maybe, right before they’re about to pull the plug, there’s a huge leap in technology and I can be a brain in a jar on a robot body.
My least favorite part about being alive is the burden of having a human body. I hate having to interrupt what I’m doing to pee. I hate having to shower or wash my hair or shave. I hate having to feed my body to give it fuel, but that I am not supposed to feed it all the crap I love. I hate standing up and realizing I need to drink water because I almost passed out from bringing myself upright with my own legs.
If I was a brain in a jar on a robot body, I could do all my regular shit, without all the boring and burdensome maintenance. I mean, robots would need actual maintenance, like charging or and oil change or something. But you could just power me down for that and I would have no idea.
Screw flying cars. I don’t care about hoverboards or smart houses. I just want to have my thoughts, forever. Instead of taking out my dentures for a party trick, I want to use my robot hand to unscrew the lid to my jar so my great-great-great grandkids can poke at my brain.
Maybe you’re a scientist and have been itching to do a medical trial for jar-brain robots. Maybe you haven’t because you don’t think anyone is dumb enough to volunteer. Rest assured, I am dumb enough. Dumb like a robot fox with its brain in a jar. Pick me. I volunteer as tribute.