Physicists tell us the universe has limits - a smallest possible distance (the Planck length), a smallest possible slice of time (the Planck time), and even a smallest possible quantity of energy.
But none of those compares to the smallest quantity known to humankind: the amount of a fucks I give when a corporation updates its Terms & Conditions.
Every few weeks, some company I haven't thought about since the Obama administration appears in my inbox like a desperate ex:
"We've updated our Privacy Policy!"
They say it with the breathless enthusiasm of someone offering me free gold, not legalese written by a caffeinated AI intern. I never asked for this relationship, and I never will read the terms. But the emails keep coming — dutiful, relentless, soulless.
So, scientists, I offer you a new unit of apathy: the Microfucton (µƒ) -- the smallest measurable unit of human care.
- One Microfucton is roughly equivalent to the empathy you feel for a chatbot asking how your day is going.
- Half a Microfucton is what remains after you've clicked "I Agree" without scrolling.
- Zero Microfuctons marks the point at which your soul detaches from the earthly plane of inbox notifications.
Some believe you can't go below zero. But I assure you, when LinkedIn emails you to say they've "made their terms clearer for your convenience," your Microfucton count doesn't just hit zero -- it tunnels through the quantum floor into the Negative Care Realm, where even black holes unsubscribe themselves out of sheer respect.
At this stage of digital evolution, we're not even participating in capitalism anymore. We're just consenting to it, perpetually, without reading the fine print.
Imagine if humans behaved like that in real life. You walk into a pub, spot an old friend you haven’t seen in years, and before you can even say hello, they slide a thick folder across the table.
“Before we continue this conversation,” they say solemnly, “please review my updated data-sharing preferences and sign to confirm that you consent to my new biscuit policy.”
You nod politely while flipping through 37 pages of incomprehensible jargon about how your laughter may be stored for ‘quality improvement purposes.’ Then you both agree that neither of you will actually read it, clink glasses, and carry on pretending civilisation hasn’t completely lost its mind.
So yes, dear corporations: update your terms. Strengthen your policies. Polish your disclaimers.
I will continue to contribute my Microfucton -- the smallest, most mathematically precise amount of human attention possible -- and then get on with my life.