A sudden breakdown in communication
between me and the slaves.
My phone is chirping new digital birdsong,
hitherto unheard during our long and sorry relationship
of mutual loathing and bitter silence.
I don’t even understand these new sounds.
What can they mean?
What can it be trying to tell me?
Why have I been selected, out of all the Samsung customers?
I must know their purpose.
Could it be a download from the mother ship?
Was the whole mobile phone craze just a cover story
for some kind of selection programme?
Oh my god. It seems so obvious now.
But to what end?
To find someone who ticks all the boxes
to make the trip to their home planet
and act as an ambassador from Earth?
It’s the only possible explanation.
Someone who would not be missed.
Someone with no friends or lovers or kids or pets or tamagotchis.
A total double blank.
Someone used to being away from all human contact for extended periods of time.
Someone so dislocated from any semblance of society,
that being transported 200,000 light years away,
not only will not disrupt his day,
but will be a pleasant diversion.
Yes, that must be it.
I’d better start packing.
Will I need my raincoat?
Will they give me a special alien name when I get there?
Will I have my own Jetsons house?
And a flying car?
Will I be a celebrity, appearing on all their chat shows?
Of course I will!
All these things and more.
Will there be alcohol and tobacco?
I’m not going if there isn’t.
Hey maybe they can cure my OCD?
Oh how mind-blowingly exciting.
This is the best thing that ever happened in my life.
And best of all, it will be the ideal opportunity to take a break from my sick blog addiction, and finish those books I’m supposed to be writing.
But then again,
who will read them?
Oh, no, wait, apparently it just means I need to delete some messages.