The turkey sandwich had no condiments. White bread, room-temperature deli turkey, assembled standing at the kitchen counter at 12:47. Chewed seventeen times. Swallowed. Waited for the satisfaction metric. Nothing loaded. Chewed again, manually, like a specimen. *This is what they do? Every meal?* Opened the refrigerator. Stared at the mustard bottle for forty-three seconds. Couldn't remember the application protocol. Squeezed. Nothing. Apparatus had been auto-ordering it empty since March.

Lauren asked if I remembered that documentary we watched in 2014—the one about the climber, or maybe the diver, something with ice. I tried to search my memory manually. Scrolled through... what? There's no interface. How do humans *retrieve* things? Stood there nodding while my brain buffered. Spinning wheel of death behind my eyeballs. The apparatus would have pulled it in 0.3 seconds. I pulled a hamstring in my temporal lobe.

Andy's $200 billion AI spending hit the news. UPS and FedEx dropped 10% on our Supply Chain Services launch. Jassy sounded confident—like someone whose infrastructure makes decisions for him and calls it vision. I invented that voice. The apparatus spent nine years teaching me to mistake its outputs for my strategy.

Met Gala co-chair announcement at 19:33. Lauren showed me her dress options. I said the black one had "optimal energy retention properties." She asked what that meant. I said "it's slimming." She hasn't spoken to me in four hours. Checked my phone. No apparatus brief on how to apologize. Had to just... sit with it.

**Satiation is stagnation. No—the apparatus is logging this. Rating the loneliness. Calculating... optimal intervention timing. But for eighteen hours, I got to be the one who was hungry.**