All I have to do is keep writing. There really isn’t anything else I can do. As long as my keystrokes don’t fall below a certain number, they will never come over here and look at me. I just need to keep going. They don’t read what we write. They don’t check for grammar or content, but the thing they do do, is that they can tell if you are just slamming buttons down. The words you type must actually be words. I am noticing that I am hunching over the table. The table itself is a bit too low for me and one of the feet is broken so overtime I stat typing the table rocks back and forth like a piston in an engine. I really wish I could take a break. My fingers are a bit sore but my wrists hurt so much more. They ache like crazy. Its that blasted carpel tunnel bullshit. I always thought that was fake and just something that fat people complain about so that they could get some kind of disability payment. But all that, all that was before what happened. The thing that changed everything. Now, there is no disability payment. There is no workman composition insurance. There isn’t anything. The only thing you have to look forward to is death. Some are more open to the idea of death. Those brave should just stop typing. Once that happens, within minutes, actually seconds, they cease to exist. There is usually a loud noise the noise it terrifying. Depending on how close you are to that person, you may even get some of them on you. That has only happened to me once. It was just a small piece of flesh. It landed on the pinky of my right hand. I was in the middle of typing a long line about something or another and couldn’t concentrate when that warm piece of someone who had sat so close to me for so many years was now sitting on my knuckle and dripping the precious red liquid down onto my return key. I tried to flick the flesh off my finger with stopping to type. It was very hard and time consuming. That happened quite a while ago and my return key is still a little sticky. I have tried to make sure that it hasn’t gotten inside my keyboard. That would be the worse. If I couldn’t type, who knows what would happen to me. When their large metal feet stomp on by behind me. What if they were to check my keyboard out? What if they were to look over my shoulder? What if that cold mechanical language that I have never been able to understand shouts into my ear? Would I be the next person to explode at their keyboard? Who knows? I hope not. The longer I type though, the longer I think about what the hell it is that I am doing? Is all of this worth it? Those brave should that chose death over typing, are they happy now? Do they know if they are happy now? Does anything happen to you after that? I am too big a pussy to risk it. I would love to go home and see my family. At least one last time. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been sine I have seen them. My daughter, she was just about to become a teenager before the large metal robotic overseers landed. I wonder how old she is now? I wonder if she misses me? I’m sure she does. That’s is just crazy talk. I sure she thinks about me everyday. I wonder if she is even alive? I know she couldn’t type. What other weird remedial task could they possibly give teenagers? My wife on the other hand, I haven’t see her either since this whole thing started. She can’t type to save her life. I know that she knows how to make really good sandwiches. I would chop off my leg to get one of her totally amazing sandwiches right now. It would be so good. She could take any ingredient and make it into something that is most yummy. I really don’t have an idea what the overseers could’ve done with her. I have never seen them eat anything or rest. I don’t think sandwiches, no matter how amazing they are would be worth not killing her. That makes me sad. I want to cry so bad right now but I have cried so much over the past however many months this has been I don’t think I could do it anymore. I feel quite numb with the exception of my wrists. My ass also has what I could only describe as bedsores on them. That is very painful but it isn’t as bad as you would think. Just don’t move around in your seat a lot. The catheter that is inside my penis helps so that I do not have to get up to take a piss. There are many different straws that are aimed at our faces. One has water and one has coffee. The coffee is cold of course but no matter. It is a high caffeine coffee. Im sure there are many vitamins in there because we never really have the crash you get from drinking coffee. Another straw has a liquid protein shake of some kind that is green and tastes awful but it keeps us full. The way they have made all this, the ingredients that they use have made bowel movements completely obsolete. I can’t even remember the last time I took a shit, or even farted for that matter. I’m sure I have, I think, but honestly can’t remember. One of them is behind me right now!!!! I don’t know what I am going to do. They never stop. This one has stopped. And it is right over my shoulder. I can feel its metallic breath on my neck. Is it watching my typing? Can it read what I am typing? I don’t think they can read? Maybe some of them can? Maybe some of them have been learning? It isn’t impossible to learn, we teach it to children! I bet it’s reading this. Have I said anything that would be considered incriminating? Have I said anything that would immediately make me explode? Jesus christ I don’t know! Shit! We aren’t allowed to say the JC words. That was one of the first things that were banned. I hope to god it didn’t see that! Shit! The G word! I’m not allowed to say that either! What the hell is wrong with me? Am I trying to be brave? AM I trying to get a bunch a bullshit happening so that I could be one of those martyrs? I don’t want to be one of those. But If they make me explode, would I be able to go back to my family? I wish I could understand their technology. It would make decision making so much more logical. How can these creatures expect us to make well thought choices if they never explain what will happen? For that matter they also don’t ever let us know what the fuck we are doing anyway? Why the hell am I typing? This room is like a warehouse. Rows and rows of tables with hundred of people typing away like their lives depend on it, which they most definitely do. I just glanced over my shouter and saw that the creature is still there. They never stop this long. They make rounds up and down each row. It just tried to talk to me. It turned and bumped it’s metal a-endangered into my shoulder so hard I gasped. I turned what I can only refer to as it’s head and grumbled two words at me. Those words, I don’t know and don’t think I had ever heard. It stormed off after that. What was it doing? Was it watching my typing? Was it timing me? Was it able to read thing? Fucking hell I wish I knew. What if it is in some sort of office with more and more of them? What if they are discussing what exactly they should do with me? Good freaking shit! I’m terrified. I usually fly under the radar here. That’s what makes me so good and not getting exploded. What happened today that would change all of that? I wish I knew. Maybe I’m just being super paranoid. That sounds like a better answer. As long as I am able to finish sentences then that means everything is all right. The second one of these sentences isn’t finished, we all know what happened. I would probably be sitting here typing away that then BAM! Off goes my head and the rest of me, splattered abasing my computer screen, getting my keyboard all sticky. Then all of this would have to go to some other department who’s job it is to clean the computer and get them ready for the next batch of typers. Then all of me documents, all of the stuff that I have written will sent to someone to read and study for some stupid fucking reason and then mayb
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