The Happy Solipsist

I love you goddamn machines!


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The Happy Solipsist
I feel moved with compassion to let you guys in on a revelation I’ve had recently. Um, none of you are people. Only I am. I am the only one in this room who really knows what a cigarette tastes like. You guys experience taste according to the dictates of your particular tasting program. It’s not that you’re not real. You’re just not people. Look, don’t be sad--organic machines are just as real as flowers, mountains or me. You machines keep me company, and though I don’t like you all, I love you. You were programmed to think of yourselves as humans with free will and high consciousness. Some of you are poet machines, some bourbon machines, some blowjob machines, a few of you are all of the above. None of you chose what you are, but don’t lose heart. I, the only human being on Earth, will write about how well you all functioned; and when the outer space people come to retrieve me I’ll say only good things about your circuits, silicon chips, and the flexibility of your orifices, all of which I’ve explored while your machine brains were shut down, or as you call it, sleeping. As my Grandma used to say, a hole is a hole Mike G, and when you stumble upon one it’s best to fill it with the best part of yourself. I know now that she was programmed to say that for my benefit. I loved my grandma. On Sundays she’d walk with me in her garden, an entire yard stuffed with azaleas, daffodils, roses, other things I can’t recall. She had 23 garden gnomes keeping watch. Each had a name. Listen and watch, Mike G, she said. They wink and whisper poems we can’t understand like the lives we’ve tried that we can’t understand. The one with a red Santa hat and green painted cheeks, his name was Gilbert, he winked at me. That’s when I knew I was special. I listened but heard no poems, only wind stirring stalks and Grandma’s asthmatic programmed machine breathing.
I heard no poems until your poems, those of you machines in this room now. You’ve been my teachers, all of you, my sweet machine teachers. I’ve tried to think of a way to thank you. I’ve found the way. All of you have been programmed to experience pleasure, and though I’ve fucked you all already while your brains were turned off I’d like to extend the invitation while your brains are turned on. I offer you my penis, the only human penis in existence. I’m afraid I’m your only choice, and I’ll try not to disappoint. Many of you I know have been programmed for disappointment but I challenge you to be enthusiastic about this unique opportunity I’m offering. I’m the God in the garden opening his robe, exposing his fruit for the enjoyment of his friends. My fruit is not forbidden. My fruit is good times. Play with it, and I will ask my superiors to not destroy you all when they return. The fruit of life is the fruit of Mike G. You have till December 21st, 2012 to decide. Decide well and it will end well for you, and for me, the happy solipsist.