...not for the slave, let me add quickly – I'm talking about for me me me. There's not much fun in being the slave.
Hang on, you may well say – you've already got someone who's being a virtual slave for you. She showers you, dresses you, brings you food and caffeine-based beverages, constant drinks of water, your glasses when you forget them (too often), washes your clothes buys your medicines is your chauffeur researches things scans document takes-photos-puts-you-to-bedandaheapofotherthings....
No. The problem there is that I hate how hard it makes things for her. I love her. I don't want her to have to run around after me twenty-four hours a day. It saddens me. It makes me feel guilty. And yes, I know I've said this before, but it shows what stays in my mind in spite of all the reassurances.
|Oh, OK. I guess you'll have to do....|
And I could do it with no trace of guilt because bad luck, slave. Stiff karma and all that, baby.
But that's the problem too. I've lived for long periods in places of virtual slavery and surprise surprise, those people have feelings as well. It doesn't matter how much I pretend, I've grown up in a country where, in theory at least, there's a democracy of sorts about an awareness of every person's needs and wants. True, you wouldn't know it sometimes. But it's there.
No. What I really need is something that will come too late for me. Not a human slave, but a robot that has no emotions programmed in except a desire to serve me for 1440 minutes of the day. An android that registers no more than pure delight at providing every service, however petty, that I hanker for.
Pity. Instead, I have to put up with the nagging guilt feelings that accompany being served by my darling slave. So hard for me me me, isn't it?
Peel me a grape, Beloved. (I did say please.)