We'll Always Have Paris

 It wasn’t even that much of a change at first. It was more like a discovery than a real change, people acknowledged it, tilted their heads to say “hmm” and went on with their lives as if it didn’t concern them. For years people kept pretending, as people often do, that these things only happen somewhere else. “Those scientists sure were crafty to think all of this up, but they can’t mean us, down here in <stupid backwater city on the other side of nowhere>, so we’ll just keep things as they were...”

Then, very slowly, people started noticing the cracks. Little things that slipped between the bars of their mind to make them realize that nothing would ever be the same. Agencies were founded, that counted the number of people that thought of you daily, semi-daily or sometimes. Still, most people were able to ignore them. Only the truly scared were members back then. But when they started hiring people to fill the gaps, they couldn’t be ignored anymore.

Some people paid good money to be thought of and didn’t care who did it. Anybody could rent a sometimer, but to be able to buy a real dailier was a luxury reserved only for the ultra-rich. But I’m getting ahead of myself, I’ll have to start, at least near the beginning.

The first clue that led to all of this, was Paris herself. During her third marriage, people started noticing that her husband (what was his name again?) started to get old, while sweet young Paris stayed exactly the same.

During that time, she herself believed that this was because of the care she gave her appearance. She kept repeating that line in every interview, for so long, everyone started to believe it.

By the time she was in her nineties, her grandson died. The boy, infamous for his unnewsworthy face and life, had rejected the Paris name and legacy long ago. He went on to become a college professor who specialized in 18th century cotton farmers. He went out like a common house cat: of old age and in his sleep. The only thing the papers said (besides the huge pictures of his grandmother’s new line of swim-wear) was that in the weekends, he liked collecting miniature trains.

Paris, realistic as ever, hired a team of scientists to interpret her new found immortality. They quickly discovered that attention, when harvested correctly, could be more powerful than time itself. By this time, the news was all over the world and the We’ll Always Have Paris Corporation (WOHP) quickly became the front man of this newfound science. Being the oldest and richest woman alive, Paris quickly adjusted to this new position and took up her throne as unquestioned Queen of Earth.

When new companies were stealing members away from WOHP, it was only a matter of time before Paris would launch the next step: the constant. The constants were people bred purely to think of others. They were kept in stimulus free environments and were never introduced to anyone except their specific member.

The balance quickly shifted as the rich now not only had better living standards, but never seemed to die. From the hatred of the poor, the Anti-media arose, a group of violent guerrilla warriors set out to rid the world of all media. The papers were quickly defeated and so were television stations. A building can be bombed, a CEO can be shot. Eventually, only the Internet remained as an all powerful information source. The Anti-media tried to stop the Internet by bombing power plants and hacking sites, but the information still came through. The Internet splintered into an endless amount of little news outlets. Everyone of them clinging to their readers because they were the only way for the poor to attain sometimers.

I had just finished my blog around midnight, when suddenly I thought of Paris. I hadn’t thought of her in quite a while. Long ago, when her need for thought was less, I was one of her dailiers. Suddenly I couldn’t suppress the need to see her, but that might have been a side effect of my work as a daily. I drove to the Paris estate and took the employees entrance. The only security guard there was caught up in a vLog made by the best friend of a girl that looked like Paris the way I remember her from my dailier-days. There was a lot of mail on the kitchen table and since no one was around, I read it. There was a letter from WOHP that spoke of the growing need for constants and the absence of payment. I skipped through it quickly because there was also a printout of an article about the girl that looked like Paris. Turns out she went by the name of ParisX and the article was about the illegitimate child she had after a fling with a European prince. She had raised her in secret, but had no choice but to give her up when she was forced to go to rehab. The daughter was now suing her for that and the pictures were showing ParisX, crying. Even with her make-up running, she was lovely. I couldn’t believe she was 20 years older than me...

Still holding the print-out, I walked into the living room. There, behind her laptop, was Paris, the other one. She was a horrible sight, her gray skin barely covered her bones. I carefully pushed her body aside to go search for more about ParisX, when I saw that her blog (http://wellalwayshaveparis.prs) was opened and she herself had been her only visitor. (kinda desperate, really) Her latest entry consisted only of one sentence over and over again: “everybody dies alone” I looked at her and frowned. “The old coot was on to something there,” I thought while looking at a couple of pictures of ParisX naked under a waterfall.

I think that this will be enough to start you off. The men outside said five to fifteen minutes, but I simply don’t know what else I should talk about. I’ll be back to visit you next week. Oh wait, no I have a conference on Wednesday... Probably in two week, okay my sweet? I promise.

Until then, remember:

Think of me.

Always.