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“Hey, pretty lady, what’s your number?”

More than anything, I hate that line. Today, especially. Once upon a time, a millennium ago, it used to be the way the males of the species requested a way of reaching the females when they were no longer in each other’s presence. They used some contraptions called a telephone, then a cell phone, then I don’t know what that required a given number that allowed the speaker to reach the desired within seconds. More or less. They also used a rather antiquated form of the computer that allowed them to write and receive letters almost instantaneously. Rather interesting, actually. They spent hours in virtual rooms called chat rooms speaking with unknown beings about shared interests although quite astoundingly uninteresting if you read the transcripts.

Anyway, of course, that is not the number today’s young men seek. Most people don’t even know what a telephone is. Chip implants have made hide-and-seek virtually impossible – ha that’s funny, virtually impossible – and telephones unnecessary. So, what is the number you may ask, my fellow beings of past or future, wherever this cyber note to history may land? Why, my expiration date, of course. What, say you, dumbfounded, incredulous? Expiration date? Aren’t they for perishable goods like milk (past) and chemical compounds used to cure illness and disease (past). Now that I think about it, you readers in my future will understand if life is similar to today: Only people have expiration dates at this point in time. Perhaps that will change one day.

How does it happen? A well-established couple decides to visit the National Department of Births and Population Control. They request the opportunity to raise a child. The Department of Vital Investigation (DVI) interrogates them and any other relatives they may have and then they do a 300 year background search. Any undesirables? Forget it! Most importantly, is this a couple deserving of bringing another life into the world, so to speak, or, on the contrary, rather worthless in the grand scheme of things? (Your worth at this juncture in history is determined by how closely you match one of the 174 human archetypes that permit life to continue in the most optimal way, and how compatible the genetic make-up of your archetype is with that of your spouse…of course, generally mismatched archetypes are not allowed to marry, but I digress…) Finally, the DVI confirms the expiration date of the prospective parents – no point in a child being destined to post-traumatic stress syndrome. We have the tools to avoid almost all of the most tragic experiences of times gone by. Almost.

In sum: They investigate, the hopeful parents-to-be check out and the process begins. An egg, a sperm, a dish. The birth specialists at the National Department of Births and Population Control closely watch the cell development and on day seven, it happens: The expiration date. A joke by the Supreme Being, no doubt. A cellular note to destiny that instructs when all systems should shut down. And thus, you know from the moment you can access your chip implant not only that all life ends but more importantly, exactly when yours will. And though the brilliant scientists can figure that out, they have not yet discovered how to modify it without simply destroying the week-old cells and starting over again.

The doting parents with a light in their eyes as they gaze upon their newborn child, are not informed. To do so might impede their ability to love and care for the child to the best of their ability. However, the child will know as soon as he attains the capability to access his chip. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

So, I hate that line. Today more than ever. But I guess I should enjoy the moment: After today, I’ll never hear those words again.