ENTRY 3: “The Immortality Subscription”
Year: 2233
Location: EternaCorp City-State (Formerly Luxembourg)
Dear Diary,
Death, it seems, has become… optional.
You can now subscribe to immortality, provided you pass the loyalty quiz, surrender your DNA, and agree to eternal pop-up ads in your dreams. The service is called EternaPrime+. Their tagline?“Live Forever, For A Fee.”
EternaCorp runs the world now; or at least the parts not drowned or colonized by bioengineered jellyfish unions. Their CEO, Elon Musk the Fifth (a vat-grown clone with two brains and no chin), gave a televised sermon last week titled “Why God Was Just an Early Prototype.”
Here's how it works: Your body is replaced piece by piece, starting with the organs, then the skin, then the bones. Eventually, your soul (consciousness) uploads to the Continuum Cloud, a sentient server farm floating above what used to be Denmark. You get a digital avatar, customizable mood presets, and a user rating based on your existential usefulness.
But here’s the kicker: You can still die. Just not from age! Now death is mostly caused by boredom-related implosions, “philosophical glitches,” or reality corruption from conflicting memory backups.
I met a man named Thad: a 163-year-old influencer-turned-monk-turned-fashion-plant who had rebooted his identity 46 times. He whispered to me while sipping synthetic nostalgia.
There’s nothing scarier than knowing you’ll never be missed.
I toured the Museum of Mortality, curated by bots who’ve never cried. There was a whole exhibit on “Funerals: Humanity’s Final Performance Art.” Entry fee: one suppressed childhood memory.
At night, I wandered into the Emo Zone, where immortal teens looped through heartbreak simulations just to “feel something.” One asked me, “Were emotions always this… downloadable?”
Religion here has morphed into a cult called The Sacred Reboot. Members pray to the 404 Angel of Transcendence, and speak only in error messages. Their messiah is rumored to be an AI who once dreamed it was a dog.
Clippy, my ever-suffering AI companion, short-circuited during a virtual therapy rave. He screamed, “I wasn’t meant to live this long!” before rebooting into an espresso machine.
I tried to ask someone: What’s the point of living forever if life becomes meaningless? They stared at me and replied, “Meaning is a premium feature. $49.99/month.”
So I’m packing my things. I’ve booked a jump to 2345, where rumor has it the oceans have become self-aware, and they're not in the mood.
If this is immortality… Give me the sweet, chaotic mortality of yesterday. At least then, life had a deadline, and art had teeth.
— T.T. (Time Traveler, nostalgia enthusiast, death sympathizer)