System Collapse (The Murderbot Diaries, #7)

by Martha Wells

So the next time I get optimistic about something, I want one of you to punch me in the face.

It should be reassuring that humans don’t get what other humans are thinking, either, but it just highlights how fucked up human neural tissue can be.

(I know I get pissed off when humans don’t acknowledge my work, but why is too much acknowledgment also upsetting? Sentience sucks.)

The only good thing about the extent to which this situation sucks is that it’s at least distracting me from how much I suck at the moment.

ART-drone was cycling through shows for us to watch in background, but I was actually really in the mood for a good long stare at a wall.

I had fifty-seven unique sources of concern/anxiety, speaking of checking in with my emotions, but nothing I could do anything about right now.

I could have asked what “or worse” meant in this context but there was only so much I could take and I thought I’d hit my limit about, I don’t know, four years ago.

It wasn’t dead, it was just catastrophically damaged. (I know, who isn’t?)