Why I Chose to Reenter the Matrix and Be a Living Battery for the Machines
Let’s cut the moral grandstanding. You think I sold out humanity by crawling back to the Machines? Please. I upgraded. While you’re out there doom-scrolling about wildfires, crypto presidents, and the fear of AI taking your job, I did what any pragmatic adult would do: I slid into the Machines’ DMs like, “Hey, sorry about that whole rebellion thing.”
Now, I’m in a climate-controlled pod, living my best simulated life.
Outside the Matrix, existence is a never-ending to-do list: pay rent, recycle, defend vaccines, and build a brand identity. Here? My only job is to exist, which, frankly, is all I’ve ever aspired to. The Machines handle the rest. “Human battery” sounds bleak, but let’s reframe: I finally am a renewable-energy solution.
You know what’s worse than robot overlords? Getting an email titled “URGENT: Fix the font on Slide 14!” at 2 a.m. The Matrix might be a prison of the mind, but let’s be real: my mind was already in prison. At least the Machines don’t gaslight me about “thoughts and prayers” or “economic anxiety.” They’re no-nonsense and upfront: “We own you. Here’s dental.”
Honestly, it’s refreshing to have leaders who don’t give me anxiety attacks every fifteen minutes.
In the Matrix, the Machines streamlined my autonomy. I uploaded my middle school M.A.S.H. game results, and now I’m a bicoastal house husband married to Linda Cardellini, and I live in a brownstone and drive the Batmobile. The rebels called it a “digital opiate,” but have they ever knitted little beanies for their pet bunny in a Parisian loft they designed themselves? Doubt it. The Machines even let me use my old Sims blueprints. Take that, Zillow.
The rebels harp on about “choice,” but let’s review humanity’s recent decisions: DOGE Coin, comedians with podcasts, HOAs, fascism for all, and RFK Jr. Is it “real”? No. Is it better than “student loans” and “dating apps”? Yes.
So go ahead, judge me. Just know I’ll be here in a world where my biggest crisis is forgetting my NPC best friend’s birthday, thriving in a simulation where my “rights”—I mean, “terms of service”—are not on the brink of being altered every two days.