Me? I'm just a regular American man.
I like to put in a full day of hard work in the Sisyphus Pod, pushing that ol' virtual boulder up the sloping sides of the grid bowl only for it to tumble down again. Sometimes the boulder physics glitch out and the dang thing falls through the world geometry. In those moments before the system derezzes the boulder, as the staccato jabs of the pain emitters stab my jaw from side to side, I am content. A real American bears misfortune with gladness.
I don't go in for your complicated coffees or trending memes.
My idea of a good time might seem simple to folk such as yourself. I get into my unfashionable but reliable pickup craft and head out towards one of the habitat's retaining walls, then crash into that sucker head-on. Crash into it good. Not fast enough to kill me, but just enough to break my nose or arm and give me sexual release.
Now, I was brought up to be honest. That's a rare thing nowadays, but I can't help it.
When the inquisitor mechanism comes around and crouches down to ask if I think my wages are fair, I tell it that I do. My life is an unchanging slog in which minor setbacks spin my financial situation into a terrible burden on my psyche, but at least I'm free, in a free unregulated market where a cabal of powerful overlords accountable to no one make decisions that affect everyone.
When it comes to clothes, I can't abide anything fancy. Give me a classic, rugged look any day of the week.
A pair of iron diving suit boots from the 1800s. Thirteen layers of skin-tight spandex jean leggings with holo-embroidery projecting the words "NOTHIN' FANCY" in a tough-looking font along the side of each leg. A shirt that is literally the sacred document known as the constitution, the original one, roughly folded and stapled together. The parts I don't agree with are torn off in such a way as to better show off the muscles on my arms.
These days there's a lot of fuss being made about race and gender and sexuality. Maybe this isn't a popular sentiment, but I'm a red-blooded heterosexual white man who knows exactly what he wants.
I want to threaten those around me with lava. I want to snap open the clasps on that hexagonal container and open the hatch, to see the orange glow of the bubbling magma light their dumbstruck faces as they recoil. I don't want to hurt any of them, mind you. I simply want to slosh the large container around wildly at them, my eyes large and absent of reason. If that makes me something of a relic, so be it.
I believe a man needs to be strong. No emotions. Able to perform great physical feats.
When the Patriot Sleep Drone delivers its fine mist every night, I am able to lift objects of great weight above my head just before I slip into unconsciousness. People invariably shake their heads and tell me this is wrong. Well, sorry if it doesn't fit into your constantly shifting societal norms. There is no shame in physical strength.
Facebook must remain unflagging in its vigilance against titties even in these troubled times of rising fascism.
It needs to consume human tissue! It needs to speak to your manager!
Reason 9: Ongoing mechanical issues with the internal Superman 64 fog machine.
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