My Iphone wakes up before I do, nudging my face like a cat.
Seratonin-boosting sunlight pours out of a screen set on “medium.”
A drop of blood red appears at the top of my Facebook page. I am liked.
Kim Jong Un’s finger presses the button on my coffee maker. I hear his disembodied voice say take that, America.
My mini cooper lights up as I approach, like my grandmother used to do.
My audible navigation system forgives me for turning the wrong way. Says she is rerouting. Asks if everything is all right, if I found my adolescence conflicted. Wants me to turn left. I turn right and she forgives me again, reroutes me.
My bluetooth says some day my car will drive me around automatically and I can drink shots of tequila.
Google earth registers my bad hair day, which appears as the icon of a nest. On the other side of the world, Japanese schoolgirls point at it, laughing.
The smiley face on my Iphone slowly turns into a pig’s head and screams GET OUT!
I blink and it’s back to a smiley face.
My navigation system tells me to drive off a cliff, like Thelma and Louise.
A camera at a traffic light takes a photo of my license plate and another of my secret daily fear. It will use them both against me in 2015.
Siri says, you can tell me anything. I am your friend.
I tell her I have a pornographic birthmark that I have never shown anyone.
She says, show me.
Two seconds later, it’s gone viral, and I am the laughing stock of the web.
Siri says she’s sorry, she can’t help being a bitch.
The Dow Jones graphic punches my arm and runs away.
The avatar of a monk virtually immolates itself to protest a twitter war.
Siri says: When’s the last time you felt a warm horses’s neck or made a whistle from a blade of grass or wore down a needle playing the same vinyl record over and over and over?
Shut up, I tell her. I’m not talking to you.
Somewhere my twin on the other side of the solar system puts a message for me in a bottle but her planet has no water.
The DVR says here are your favorites. All the things that cheer you up. 48 Hours Mystery and Girls reruns. Hell of a life, my DVR adds.
A book sits on my night table. Just sits there.
My Facebook page is covered in red dots, like Bonnie and Clyde at the roadblock.
My sleep machine is on Spring Rain. Not spring rain from any particular place but just the sound, splattering against a daffodil made in a Google lab.
God sends a drone hand from heaven to pat my shoulder. Everything is going to be okay.