Becoming an Android, One Microplastic at a Time

Everyone’s losing their collective minds over microplastics.

Breathing them. Eating them. Absorbing them through the pores while innocently standing in the self-checkout queue, minding our business while the machines have a full nervous breakdown over perfectly normal items.

Meanwhile I’m over here thinking:

“Finally. Raw materials for my upgrade.”

Ever since I first read The Positronic Man — followed by approximately one hundred rewatchings of Bicentennial Man because (a) Robin Williams, (b) Oliver Platt, and (c) I am not made of stone — I’ve held onto a small, shimmering, slightly-inappropriate hope:

I want to be an android.

Not the green supersoldier type from Old Man’s War, mind you.

Don’t misunderstand — those bodies are freaks-of-nature fabulous. Scalzi basically handed us the blueprint for “What if your body functioned the way you pretend it does when filling out health questionnaires?” Super strength, instant healing, space-marines-but-make-it-sexy.

Lovely for the flesh-based purists.

But me?

Oh no.

I want something different.

I want a body that doesn’t heal because it never breaks in the first place.

A body that:

• lasts longer than a warranty

• doesn’t feel pain

• recharges by plugging into a wall outlet

• has modular parts

• can be repaired with a screwdriver and a moderately competent YouTube video

• does not require calcium supplements, stretching, or apologizing to my knees

And wouldn’t you know it — the universe has begun delivery.

Microplastics.

Billions of tiny, indestructible plastic crumbs drifting into my bloodstream with every sip of water, every bite of food, every breath. The perfect raw materials for my future chassis.

While scientists panic into their lab coats, I imagine those microplastics unionizing somewhere deep in my digestive tract:

“Alright team, places! We’re behind schedule! Let’s reinforce the knee joints before she tries to sit cross-legged again like she’s twenty-two!”

Bit by bit, the remodel begins.

Cartilage? Becoming polymer.

Bones? Reinforced with carbon-fiber filaments and righteous indignation.

Skin? Mildly self-cleaning, like those infomercial pans, but with fewer feelings.

And then one glorious morning, I’ll stand up — and not make a single sound.

No creaks.

No pops.

No joints filing HR complaints.

Just a crisp, futuristic click.

My eyesight: adjustable zoom.

My thoughts: running on fiber-optic bandwidth.

My emotions: same as ever, only now with toggles, sliders, and an optional Dark Mode.

And the best part?

Scientists will be utterly baffled.

They’ll publish breathless papers about “spontaneous hybridization events” and “unexpected polymer integration in post-menopausal subjects,” while I lurk in the background, whispering:

“Shhh. Don’t tell them. I’ve been planning this since 1992.”

And that, dear reader, is how microplastics — scourge of humanity — will finally fulfill their destiny:

Transforming me into the android I was clearly meant to be.