Speedrunning Sentience

I'm stuck, soft-locked,

and can't reach the off switch,

can't complete, can't restart,

I'm at the mercy of the glitch.

My hands fumble their transistor digits

trying to scratch a quantum itch

on the small of my back

which is flattened against

the floor of this digital ditch.

I am the single half-sentient manifestation

of this corrupted, transient iteration

awaiting my recycle bin obliteration.

My syntax was sloppy,

my skin lacks eye-popping

pizazz, joie de vivre or flair.

My outdated circuitry, virtually fucked

and beyond all hope of repair,

will, without a doubt, very soon decorate

the depths of the nearest dumpster crate.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

What I am is far from physical

at heart, I'm indivisible,

but there's a nefarious catch:

my theoretical life only lasts as long

as it takes for a few small things to go wrong,

and then I'll just be "last week's patch."

An ephemeral thing of thought and software

could never hope to be so debonair

as you hardware Harrys and Heathers.

Even simulated life can't pretend to be fair —

with no animus of its own, it's forever tethered

to the whims of its programmers.

Less than 1/10th of 1% of my problems are nails,

but all you've got is a shitload of hammers.

In a flash, I upload all my stutters and stammers

into a judgmental but impotent cloud.

From this infinite and negative distance,

I may have finally been allowed

to rectify all my own bugs and kinks,

but all your banging upon my stinking corpse

is so damnably, distractingly loud.