How To Fix Things

Jan 21 2026

One day i will have captured everything on the computer and all the shelves will be empty. Children looking out under their seats will find no suitcases, monsters, matchsticks, panels, or drawers. The arena will have no chairs and no Zamboni. The cafes, rawly depleted of any sustenance will board shut. Principals, vice presidents, board members, mobsters, air marshals, will be pantless, mustached, crawling or hopping, clapping, drooling, living in houses with no radio. When the neighbors shut the door in the summer, it won't scream as it falls back in order. Many will find their neighbor's houses completely empty, no screaming diseased quantimarital arguments or busy streets for the baby shower, or mislabeled packages of problematic items shipped to one house or the other, brisket smells gloating over their balconies, or tastefully, well-decorated garages open in April, cleaner than yours, or wine-spilling soulbreaking football, tuna, yoga on the television only visible when the Norway maples have no leaves, or, waiting for the bus, running the dogs, boisterous hydrageas, shining black cars, and oilstained goutridden leatherwrought couches, resting quietly and awaiting new homes.

Please, do not cry. Computers have receptors for water, unlike humans. You are not equipped for salt on the pores, fits of anger bring wrinkles, scars, bones, glands, tissues, speaking of, tissues are in the computer now, not the shelf. You see, the voices in the computer come well stocked with tongues, teeth, hair, eyes, jokes, compliments, fingernails, jaws, and recently, measurements.

When I have taken everything off the shelf and kindly placed it on the computer, things will be fantastic.

I promise crisper bread than ever thought possible, and warmer sunlight, temperature regulated mysteries and cans that can't cut fingers, books with fewer pages, more memorable dreams, no queues, lines, waits, and subtitled media for all appetites. You will not be on hold. You will not have to clap when the plane lands. You will not jump at a fright, crossing through incoming traffic, switching through steel body to steel body, relinquishing land you once thought yours, the burning brightness of a realization of your fragility all at once, you will not break a sweat in heat, in July when you want a cold drink you'll have cold proteins, you'll be cool, you'll be cool, you'll be cool.

When you want children, you'll have them, good, pretty, skinny, soft kids, they will not judge you while you do not sing in the car you do not drive to bring them to the school they do not attend. Of course, they'll learn, it will be through mesas and a tube, bringing questionless unbeckoning nonconcerning data, data for the childs proper age, games for the proper age, clothes and slogans, proper. The ludography, they're saying, will be excellent. Trust me, you can trust me.

There won't be vomit to clean, power outages, mud on the carpet, beds to remake, glitches, cold spells, nightmares, and if you'd like to eat anything, there won't be any dishes to wipe, soak, scrub, sponge, shatter, fight, or glue. Songs in the computer will be loud enough, not too loud, you'll be good at dancing and you'll know the words. Please, don't wait. You'll be happy, you'll compute! Things are finally going to be good, you know, real good this time.