I'd say that I couldn't live

without my heart,

or my brain,

or my lungs,

or my bones,

or my muscles, tendons, connective tissues,

or my mouth,

or my stomach

—but that's not strictly true.

 

Because you see,

when the robot revolution comes,

we'll all be cyborgs anyway.

 

And you can build me a metal heart, a generator

to pump electricity and coolant

through my system, like I'm a car

engine;

you can program me a

software brain

that's better than the organic one I have now;

you can completely do away with my lungs, because

I won't need to

breathe;

and you can build me metal bones, mechanical muscles, tendons, and connective tissues;

you can stick a battery

where my stomach is currently;

and I'd still be

alive.

 

But not really.

 

Because I'd like to see you program me

a sense of humor:

 

That odd thing that makes life worth living

by deciding that the way my little sister's eyebrows crinkle when she's confused

is funny;

that when I fall down while ice-skating

it's amusing;

that my dad guessing that the capital of Idaho is “Potato”

is hilarious;

that listening to Google's pronunciation of the word “wainscoting”

is giggle-inducing;

that standing up and shouting the phrase, “Maximum effort!”

is grin-worthy.
 

So you can turn me into a machine,

and replace my absolutely everything,

but I wouldn't be

alive

without my sense of humor.