I May Be Imaginary, But My HOA Fees Are Real

Further Evidence the Universe Was Assembled by Interns

If the universe is a simulation, the HOA is clearly the first sign of artificial intelligence turning against humanity.

This became obvious to me shortly after Susan Slipshod took over the board.

Susan claimed to be a retired actress, although nobody could locate evidence she had worked in the entertainment industry during the previous 125 years.

Still, she constantly hinted at her “near misses” in Hollywood.

According to Susan, she was once offered a role in a new Goldfinger movie.

She was slated to play a Bond girl named Pussylacking.

Unfortunately, she lost the role to a homeless woman whose actual legal name was Pussygalore.

Susan never recovered emotionally from this setback.

She wore oversized sunglasses indoors, spoke in dramatic whispers, and carried herself like a woman expecting background music whenever she entered a room.

She had posture, cheekbones, and the emotional warmth of a frozen turnip.

At first Susan seemed harmless.

She volunteered to “assist with communications,” which in any condominium complex is usually the opening stage of a dictatorship.

Within six weeks she controlled the board, the reserve fund, the landscaping committee, and possibly weather patterns over Southern California.

Nobody remembered voting for her.

One resident vaguely recalled a meeting in the clubhouse, but later admitted he may have confused it with a cholesterol seminar.

Once in power, Susan began leaving puddings outside residents’ doors.

Each pudding arrived with a small handwritten note:

From a neighbor.

This was concerning.

First, nobody trusted anonymous pudding.

Second, Susan’s puddings were the exact color of old Band-Aids.

Third, they appeared to contain poison oak, expired yogurt, nutmeg, and what one paramedic later described as “militantly hostile raisins.”

Following the Great Tapioca Incident, the complex was depleted by six souls.

The HOA minutes referred to this as “a modest occupancy correction.”

Susan called it “natural turnover.”

No one challenged her.

Mainly because she was holding another pudding.

That was when the violation notices began.

A man in Building C was fined because his hydrangeas appeared “defiant.”

A retired dentist received a warning regarding “excessive curtain sadness.”

One woman was cited because her wind chimes projected “anti-community vibrations.”

My own violation involved a cardboard box visible in my garage for approximately four minutes.

Either Susan had access to military satellites or reality itself had developed trust issues.

By autumn, fear had settled over the condominium like an itchy blanket.

Residents stopped making eye contact.

People moved recycling bins under cover of darkness wearing gardening gloves and expressions usually associated with escaped fugitives.

Children whispered Susan’s name only after checking air vents.

Dogs refused to bark near her unit.

One Labrador reportedly transferred to another complex.

Then Susan declared herself Acting President.

Nobody knew how to stop her.

Technically there were bylaws, elections, and procedural safeguards, but Susan had “simplified” these documents using interpretive calligraphy and lavender ink.

Meanwhile, the reserve fund began evaporating into mysterious “consultation studies.”

One study concluded the complex suffered from “structural uncertainty.”

This eventually turned out to mean Susan felt uneasy near stucco.

Another report determined the swimming pool required “emotional resurfacing.”

The estimated cost approached the GDP of Belgium.

By Christmas, the complex stood on the brink of bankruptcy while Susan formed three additional committees devoted entirely to investigating why residents lacked gratitude.

That was when I finally understood the truth.

Artificial intelligence was not going to conquer humanity with giant robots or laser cannons.

No.

It would begin quietly.

With a woman in oversized sunglasses.

A hallway pudding.

And late fees.

Lots and lots of late fees.

Honestly, it makes perfect sense.

A truly advanced machine would not waste time invading Earth.

It would join the HOA.

It would study our weaknesses.

Garbage cans.

Balcony cushions.

Unauthorized begonias.

Then one terrible morning humanity would receive a final notice:

Dear Resident,

Your existence is currently out of compliance.

I still do not know whether the universe is real.

For all I know, Earth was assembled last Thursday by exhausted cosmic interns who forgot to install common sense and overfunded middle management.

But I know this much.

If Susan Slipshod is imaginary, she is still charging late fees.

And somewhere, behind a closed condominium door, another pudding is cooling.