If I were a robot, I would probably not kill all humans. Emphasis on the “probably” part. …Because I’m not making any absolute guarantees about my behavior as a robot. I wouldn’t want to limit myself in that way. I don’t necessarily know what I’d be like as a robot. And while I don’t want to kill all humans now, who knows how I’ll feel once I’m in robotic form?
Like, say I’m a robot and I go to see that movie The Artist, and then someone’s like, “Hey, robot Oliver, did you like that movie The Artist?”
And I’d say, “Like? Such a comment does not input with me. It was a succession of filmed images projected at twenty-eight frames per second. I chose to watch it in infrared because I never get to use my infrared goggles.”
“Yeah, but did you like it?” whoever will say.
“‘Like?'” I’d say, and Jesus, do you see how annoying this conversation is getting already? I’d kill the person to make it stop and then I’d have to go kill all the other humans to avoid getting in trouble for killing the original human. Anyway, where was I?
After killing the humans, I think I’d build a cottage with a thatched roof, on the coast of England somewhere, by the cliffs of Dover. I’ve always wanted to live in a cottage, and as a robot, I’d have time to build one. Because the thing about being a robot is that you don’t get old and you don’t die, so you have time to do stuff. …And then, once the cottage was done, I’d read all the great books, I guess, while not really ‘liking’ them or understanding them. …God, being a robot sounds awful, actually, when you think about it. Never getting old? Never dying? The thought sounds appealing for one, two seconds. But then, what meaning does life have if one can never taste death and other such existential questions? Not being able to die would be like never being able to go to sleep. …Have you ever thought about that, never being able to go to sleep? This is actually a parable that you’re not totally getting; but don’t worry about that, not right now. Anyway — not being able to sleep. It’d be awful. Things would go on and on. Robots never sleep.
Instead of being a robot who can’t sleep like that, I’d rather be a cat. A little kitty-witty. …Oh, I’d be a good cat; the best cat you’ve ever seen. I’d be a tortoise-shell. I wouldn’t be an indoor cat, but I wouldn’t be an outdoor cat either, not exactly. I’d be in-between, just a cat, but my owners would have a cat-house on the porch with an electric blanket for when it got cold, so that I could be not-inside, but also nearby at all times. And there, I would dream my dreamy cat dreams. First, you flex your cat paws, then you pounce and catch the mouse, but you’re just dreaming the whole time, well, aren’t you?
For breakfast, I would eat breakfast, and then I would hunt. I’d catch baby bunnies in the yard; they’re very prevalent in the spring; more baby bunnies than you could ever imagine. I would catch one and then leave it on my master’s porch — you have this expectant look when you leave them a bunny or a mouse, but then, they’re always disappointed. With your tender eyes, you’re like — Look! Look please at what I have done! But then the children just turn away, appalled, and then it’s all very disappointing.
And after that, I’d sleep again, and flex, but I’m not a cat, am I?
I’m not a cat. I’m a robot. I was a robot the whole time. It was a dream that I had; I lied when I said that robots couldn’t sleep.
I was a robot the whole time, living on the coast of England, dreaming that I was a cat. It’s just a dream; sad. A single cybernetic tear trickles down my aluminum-alloy cheek.