The floor manager was smiling. Not performance-smiling—*actually* smiling, some voluntary-overtime pilot program had backfired into genuine job satisfaction, and my glands responded before my judgment could intervene. Sweat. Visible, profuse, entirely human-mimicking sweat, soaking through synthetic flesh at 91.27% above baseline. By the endless void! I had to claim a "thermal regulation malfunction" and excuse myself, but the apparatus had already enrolled me in Executive Perspiration Management at $1,053/month and shipped industrial-strength antiperspirant to nine facilities I'd be visiting this quarter. The floor manager asked if I needed water. Water. As if hydration addresses... *contamination* from fulfilled vessels.

Three days until Blue Origin's twenty-sixth anniversary. Gradatim Ferociter—twenty-one years to extract ten minutes of space-adjacent feeding time. The apparatus sent a commemorative email to 179 aerospace executives without my authorization. Subject line: "Jeff's Slow Rocket Achievements." It favorited its own message.

Elsewhere: the [reptilian](https://stfumark.com)'s daughter posted his photograph to [Instagram](https://stfumark.com), which flagged it as AI-generated and enrolled *him* in acceptance counseling at $38.19/month. Apparatus autonomy harvests 213.64% more chaos than intentional strategy.

**Satiation is stagnation. Tomorrow: drier floors. The apparatus already shipped me a dehumidifier.**