I like ordering things off of amazon. It gives me a satisfactory rush of euphoria much like narcotics. Given the fact that I haven’t left my house in 3 months it's also great to see the delivery driver leave my various packages at the doorstep on business days, even if they aren’t too keen on seeing me. I’m currently on a first name basis with a handful of them. Others aren’t so friendly but I make them talk to me regardless. Or I just order perishable goods every 2 hours to make sure they get to know me.
At the very least I can say my house is fully stocked with 12 cases of varying brands of orange juice, 4 different pairs of limited edition adidas, 10 different printers for my 10 computers and laptops with their own respective functions, a blu ray collection that takes up my entire living room floor (sometimes multiples of the same film with different theatrical or director's cuts), trucker caps, sunglasses, hunting knives, military grade night vision binoculars, assorted halloween costumes, a multitude of multi purpose plastic bins for storage, a life size chef boyardee statue, SATA drives, solid state drives, the entire Michael jackson discography on vinyl, you name it.
I’ve been pondering if I should even befriend these “people” though. Sometimes, I can see them on their phones talking in a language I can’t really distinguish from ours. Then when I pick up my package and look up, they’ve simply vanished. Busy schedule? Maybe. I’ve been leaning towards the possibility of simulated beings that are planted into product disseminating systems by other worldly entities.
And look, I get why THEY would be interested in doing such a task. Gathering information in the age of information is probably the quintessential task for someone alien to our world, universe, dimension, reality, etc. What intel could they possibly gather during the paleolithic era? Or even the dark ages?
But we’re beyond that, we have things to validate our existence now. The fact that I’m able to record this and sell this piece of abstract auditory product in a market of commodities shows how far we’ve come. They’re listening in on this and they know I’m connecting the dots. They know I’m fucking with them and I’ll keep on fucking with them. This music doesn’t even exist. What is existence? I’m certainly about to find out.
Next time one of these fucking human shaped myriads of ones and zeros shows up at my door with toner cartridges, I’ll take my preemptive measures. Invite them into my house with or without their own volition. You think I’ve bought all these goods for nothing? I’m catching them off guard. They’ll send backup, yeah. More ones and zeros to negate my ones and zeros. That’s when I douse my entire house in gasoline, tie me, the digital mole, and Chef Boyardee to my newly assembled IKEA bed frame and make fucking history as the first industrially manufactured funeral pyre.