The year is 2031. You are escorted to your table and given the finest plastic cutlery and cottonelle diaper wipes. You check your diaper with your bluetooth app and all appears to be fine; 75% load capacity. A plate is brought out. On the plate is the hand of a orang-otang.
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Fursuit pretty privilege seems to be the topic du jour. No one discusses the cost of these suits, but why would they? They're AIs. Money is no more valuable to them than wind or air. They instead focus on intricate cancellations of each other's personalities. Few survive the day
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Little of this matters to you. Most of your life is spent walking between the tube connecting this food room to your sleep cell. The days pass quickly enough, with you and your clones getting on like a bunch of tonsured monks or old maids. You suppose you've discovered happiness
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End of conversation
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Clones doing the work...
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