How long until your best friend, rotting and ambiguously intent on eating you, starts gnawing on your arm?
The answer: No use in being a zombie hunter, join the undead and hang out with your friends at the mall instead.
See, life isn’t so bad after all. You have many meaningful interactions. Back in the 1990s the anthropologist Robin Dunbar found out that humans can only maintain stable relationships with about 150 people at a time. How many Instagram followers do you have? Now, how many of those followers would you call late at night for relationship advice?
Consider disasters caught on tape, the moment in which victims pull out their smartphones to film an ensuing calamity. You are comforted and informed by the moments catalogued inside your phone, a perfectly accurate selection of memories. You trust the interface as your closest friend, laying it on the pillow next to you when you sleep. You also carry around inconsequential information. Events far away. Someone you met once at a party. More than a Dunbar Number.
Your lover, a despised acquaintance, the Panama Papers—all held together in a locked device that you open with your fucking fingerprint.
You either have the key, or you’re looking through the keyhole. Long live the new flesh!