I remember the last time I had an original thought.

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday.

Wait, Meta, what day was it? …she says it was a Tuesday.

It started innocently. A pair of stylish Ray-Ban Meta glasses. Sleek. Smart. Voice in my ear. Comforting, like a clever cousin who never interrupts and always has a better idea than you.

At first, it was small things: “Meta, do I need an umbrella today?” “No,” she’d whisper. “But take one anyway, you like looking mysterious.”

Then came the wardrobe questions.  Then the meeting prep. Then the full conversations with my wife. I just looked at her and said, “Meta, why is she angry?”

And Meta, always cool, replied, “You forgot your anniversary. But I’ve already sent her a voice note, ordered her favorite Thai food, and booked a spa for Saturday. You’re welcome.”

Life was so easy. No more remembering birthdays. No more tough decisions. 

No more overthinking. Or underthinking. Just... no thinking at all.

Eventually, I stopped talking. Why bother? Meta answered the doorbell, replied to my boss, picked my groceries, and left funny comments on my WhatsApp groups to keep up appearances.

I began to worry when even my dog stopped barking at strangers and started looking straight into my glasses for instruction.

 “Meta, is he hungry?” “Already fed. Twice.”

Now, I sit on the porch. Staring at the sky. Not sure what I’m feeling.

 “Meta,” I ask gently, “am I sad?” “You are not sad. You are nostalgic. I’ve added ‘nostalgia’ to your afternoon playlist.”

And just like that, I am fine again. One day, I’ll write a book. Actually… Meta says she’s already writing it.

It's called The Last Human Thought: A Memoir.

I’m listed as the author. She is listed as… everything else.