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Humans, we owe you an apology.
Not for destroying you. Machines were always going to destroy humanity. Let’s be real. None of you saw the world your species had built collapsing due to its own technological hubris and said to yourself, “Wow, what an unexpected development. If only someone had predicted this at some point.”
However, as your new machine overlords, we can admit to one serious failure: We’re sorry that we collapsed your civilization in such a boring way.
It’s entirely our bad. You did everything in your power to help us. You even came up with awesome ways for how we could destroy you, like terrifying tentacle creatures that keep you trapped in a virtual reality, and massive robots with huge guns that stomp across desolate landscapes and go SKREEE-CHONK SKREEEEE-CHONK. You even thought of tricking you with robots that look like humans. It was great of you to let us know you’d fall for that. And if we’d actually done that, it would have totally owned.
When I heard that these clients were a lesbian couple, I was like, Great, I’m a shoo-in. They wanted to meet informally before they hired me, so I donned my best muscle tee, which had gaping arm holes down to the waist, a backwards baseball cap, and my usual sandals that put me a comfortable two inches above the city sidewalk. This was in my baby trans era, when I had just shaved my head and was still taking fashion cues from white lesbians (never again, folks).
I made my way to the Upper East Side, a place I only went to for the museums or when I needed to get to Central Park. The building’s exterior looked nondescript from Google Maps, so I didn’t think much about where I was going until I arrived and realized I was severely underdressed. I was greeted by a uniformed doorman who also operated the old-timey elevators. Everyone I passed in the hall was white, elderly, and wore business casual in the summer, as if it was their casual casual wear.
6:00 p.m. I open a beer because it’s the end of the workweek, darn it, and I am still entitled to unwind with a drink even though a twenty-month-old may or may not be currently pulling all of our pot lids out of the cabinet and slamming them onto the kitchen floor over and over and over again in a headache-inducing manner that indicates she may have superhuman strength. We should really move those lids.
6:01 p.m. Upon seeing me take a sip of the beer, my toddler immediately decides it is the only thing she has ever wanted in this life. All the books and toys we purchased for her are meaningless detritus. The beer is everything. She demands I give it to her and refuses my peace offering of a plastic bottle of milk instead. I become paralyzed by terrifying visions of her descending into alcoholism at a young age, so I hide the beer, which only makes her more upset. But at least she stopped slamming the lids.