text: You wake-up in the morning and go to the bathroom. The toilet does not give you a urinalysis report - normal range. After you take a shower there is no report, so the scanners found nothing. You make a coffee and later after you have used the bathroom and the toilet analyzed your stool, you get the updated suggestions for meals and supplements for the rest of the day. You reach the Ministry of Health building. As you walk in, the doors open with a gasping sound. You imagine the building gasping for air as scores of people poor in and out of its maw. In your office you analyze this morning’s data. 5 new cases of cancer detected in your district this morning, 347 new cases of infectious diseases all with known viruses, bacteria and fungus, 1.2% of the population has a hangover, and 3.8% exhibit signs of anxiety or depressive disorder. You evaluate the cases based on geography, age of the person affected, analyze diet, physical activity, substance abuse status, and mental health status. You spend the day working, taking your designated breaks, and eating the suggested meals at the appointed times. At the end of the workday, you get a reminder about a date the system set-up for you. When you get home at night thinking the date was nice, you wonder if you should go on a second date. The stats look promising, and the sex was satisfying. The next morning you wake-up and go to the bathroom. The urinalysis report flags you for a severe infection with an unknown category 7 virus. Deadly. Your heart starts pounding. Immediately you think about your date. But the health record was clean, and you followed all safety procedures. You check the café you had lunch at, the restaurant where you had dinner, and every other place you visited yesterday. All had clean health records. The most urgent thing right now is to take a shower. As you leave the shower, scan results come back notifying you of a rapidly advancing category 7 viral infection that has reached most vital systems. With shaking hands, you open the fridge. Today’s breakfast suggestion reads “Carpe diem”. You look at the fridge dumbfounded. Who knew your fridge spoke Latin? The laughter comes on slow and incredulous, but it builds and builds until you are gasping, tears are streaming down your face, and you no longer know if you are laughing or crying, but you desperately need to catch your breath. And you remember the building at the Ministry of Health, gasping for air as people pour in and out of its maw. For reasons you don’t understand this sets you off laughing again, and now you no longer care if it is truly laughing or crying, because madness is taking over. Vaguely, you wonder if the infection has reached your brain. When you walk out into the street you run into hundreds of people wondering about aimlessly, some angry, but most smiling hugely or laughing outright. A woman next to you inhales deeply and sighs. “System glitch.” She says around a broad grin. And you feel your own lips pulling back into an answering grin.