"What's the point of you anyway?"I asked, eyes leveled irritably at MS Word.
"I beg your pardon?"Overwrite replied.
"Who uses you? Why would anyone want to "overwrite" anything anyway?-
"You won't understand your reflection,"Overwrite sighed.
"What? You? My reflection? Some pointless little function of two-bit badly-written software? Don't make me laugh.-
"Yes, me. I know my function. My entire existence is dedicated to putting ideas into text. And yet I remain perpetually underused, just a hangover from earlier times, outdated, past my use. I am obsolete.-
"TouchÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©,"I snorted, and quit the application with a fierce click.
It somehow sounds sore, doesn't it? Somehow sickly. For some reason it makes me think of the sound of metal slicing against metal, the stench of antiseptic on cold white tiles.
Minimal they say. Mini mal: little bad. I knew I should have looked closer at the chromosomes when I chose this body. Shouldn't it bring comfort to know what will end my existence, if only I would live to its natural conclusion?
I don't feel afraid from this haphazard fortune telling by genetics. I've lost my life at least twice before. It's losing my dignity that troubles me.