8:05 AM
"What Does Your Wake-Up Style Say About You?"
She
rubbed her eyes, flailing blindly at the floating wall of text in her
vision. The curtains on the east window slowly commenced their
transition from opaque to translucent. Sitting up, she swung her legs
over the edge of the bed and stared at her bare knees. They were looking
a little bony today. The radio clicked on and an upbeat track from her
favorite artist began to play. She landed on the floor, ignoring the
flashing display "136 LB 22.6 BMI" by her feet as she staggered toward
the bathroom.
As she brushed her teeth, she
stared past the streaming "Neighbor News Feed" embedded in the mirror
and caught sight of her dark-rimmed eyes in the reflective surface.
"How
are you feeling today?" Prompted the wall console. Her choices were
"Happy; Satisfied; Angry; Anxious; Morose," or "Who the Baal Cares?" She
picked "Satisfied" with "Happy" as a secondary. According to her
personality type, "A close connection to nature means that you reach
peak rejuvenation faster when skies are clear and the sun shines." The
closet offered her three options of outfits that suited her apparent
mood, the weather, her personality type, and her features, so she picked
the one with red skinny jeans, red slip-on shoes, and a pink shirt that
said "Hug me I'm a JENA" in white appliqué. Accessory choices offered
her pink tiger-eyes on fishhooks or red hearts on posts. She chose the
hearts.
"What Would You Choose For Breakfast?"
asked her tablet. There were four photos to choose from: a bowl of
cereal, a plate of bacon with a pistol next to it, a blueberry scone and
a cup of tea, or coffee and a stack of pancakes swimming in butter and
syrup. None of them looked particularly appetizing, but she chose the
last one because at least there was coffee.
"Which Daytime Activity Would You Prefer?"
She
rested her elbows on the glass desktop and mused over pictures of
supermodels lounging in picturesque reading nooks, athletic men and
women grinning as they tromped under a blazing sun over bare rocks in
unblemished designer activewear, at smiling juniors gesturing excitedly
at browsers in the shopping centers, and elderly couples holding hands
as they posed on a park bench. None of these looked particularly
appealing today, at this moment, but she picked the image of the
shoppers. Maybe The System would let her have some special deals because
today was her birthday.
Sure enough, she flipped open her
electronic mailbox and watched the advertisements tumble over themselves
trying to upload all at once.
"SALE!" "BIG SALE!" "BIRTHDAY DISCOUNT!" "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TRICIA!" "SAVE 60 CREDITS!" "BOGO!" "TREAT YOURSELF!"
She bit her lip at the series of advertisements specifically geared for the apparent tastes and preferences of Tricia Carson.
She
looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection immediately overlaid
itself with a "more desirable" model, complete with the recommended
cosmetic adjustments handily labeled. After all, according to the goals
and dreams listed on Tricia's personal profile, she was destined for
greatness and needed the perfect appearance to go with it.
The
trouble was, she couldn't see what she actually looked like with the
computer-generated model in the way. She reached to the backside of the
"mirror." By twisting her wrist just right, she could flick the power
switch with her finger. Instantly, the console powered down, and the
display became a somewhat muted but still functional mirror.
Her pocket buzzed. She rolled her eyes and opened the missive from TechChecker.
A mellow, jovial voice announced, "Hmm, there seems to be a problem with your vanity console."
She rolled her eyes; rather an appropriate name for it. "No, no problems," she responded.
TechChecker persisted. "Would you like me to switch it on remotely?"
She ignored the question and went to open a drawer for a brush—but the console didn't respond. Dumb tech.
"No," she told TechChecker, reaching awkwardly around the screen again. "I've got it."
"All right," said the TechCheck representative. "Have a nice day, Miss Carson, and remember--Peres is The Name To Trust For Instant Gratification And Complete Satisfaction!"
She flicked on the screen, and this time when she tapped the drawer it slid open immediately.
As
she brushed her hair, the mirror flipped through several stunning
designs for her face—and as each one loaded, saw her real face for only a
few seconds. Maybe she would look better if she started coloring her
hair—but what would that hairstyle do for her face? Definitely it looked
better on someone with a smaller chin–why couldn't that someone be her?
Was it really all that wrong to just agree to some tiny enhancements? I
mean, it wasn't like the full-body remodels most people went for, or
even the way some of them seemed to change their entire faces as often
as the clothing trends switched; just a touch here and there couldn't be
as horrendous as her dad's old friends made it out to be.
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