I wake up and immediately tell my kitchen robot to prepare a healthy breakfast. She’s not just a robot to me; she’s my best friend. After breakfast, I take my aircar to the studio, and it only takes a few minutes to get there. Upon arrival, I use facial recognition to get inside. As I walk in, I notice that none of my friends are there yet. I wonder where they are, but then I realize it’s still early for them to be here. As I did the previous year, I arrive an hour before we start. I take a moment to tidy up the dressing room so we won’t waste any time before we get on stage for the robot juries to rate our styles.
As time passes, the number of jobs that still involve real humans continues to decrease. It’s becoming harder to socialize like we used to in our past lives. Sometimes, I fear what I might do due to my anger toward the robot juries—just sitting there, doing nothing, with no talking, no facial expressions, one day. I force myself to be patient and look forward to returning home to my “real human” husband. Lately, he’s been a great help in calming me down, solving my problems in a way no robot could.
As the day goes on, my friends begin to arrive. By 9 a.m., we’re all present, which means it’s time to start dressing. Today is a big day because, finally, we’ll be performing for real human juries. I say this like it’s unusual because it’s been nearly ten years since I last performed for a real person.
I dressed up as an angel and walked onto the stage, reminding myself that I don’t look too old for my age. It was a joy to see real faces smiling at me, talking to each other, and rating my performance. The whole process lasted three hours, and once it was over, the workday came to an end.
While I’ve focused on the darker side of this job, it’s worth mentioning that I make a good amount of money from what I do. But in the end, I can honestly say that happiness is worth more than money.