On Being an Android
My positronic hair never grows an inch.
(It looks like hair, but it’s made of wires.)
My brain doesn’t look like a brain, but it doesn’t matter.
My friends think of me as reliable because I never get sick.
My hands can be used to unscrew bolts and pull things from the oven.
How I was made: equal parts mystery and on-off switches.
Age 5: driving lessons, triathlon, med school, embroidery.
Everyone says looks don’t matter, as long as you’ve got personality.
My first crush was a Roomba I mistook for a person.
Second crush: a person, but don’t even go there.
I could live in a cupboard, but where’s the fun in that?
The cat keeps me company whenever I cook.
(I don’t need to eat food, but I like to practise anyway.)
It’s easy to be lonely when all your friends are human.
The cat laps up my meals, but then she’s always hungry.
In my dreams, I am charming and good at making small talk.
(There’s no program for that as yet.)
Being human means the whole world is made for you like a cake.
Being an android means you get some cake, but you can’t eat it.
I don’t know how to flirt, so the bears at my local are teaching me.
The lightning in my head means a brainstorm is coming.
If I think hard enough about anything, my hair starts to curl.
It’s easy to predict the future when there’s a timer in your neck.
The instruction manual says my knee can be used as a utensil.
Everyone admires my artificial skin, but nobody wants to touch it.