Welcome, weary travelers of the mortal coil, to another dispatch from the crumbling edge of civilization—the intersection of Big Data, Big Pharma, and your Uncle Jerry’s Fitbit that keeps confusing his heartbeat with an incoming call from the void. It’s 2026. AI isn’t here to take your job; it’s here to forecast your doom, plot your demise on a spreadsheet, and upload your regrets straight to the blockchain. Imagine this: medical forecasters peer into the abyss of your soul and see not only that you will eventually perish (big shock! We are all born with terminal conditions called existence), but can also pinpoint the exact Tuesday in February when your immune system will finally yeet off the mortal plane, leaving you in the cold embrace of cardiovascular malaise, while the AI-powered Clock of Dorian Gray tuts disapprovingly at how many years your liver has aged since last Taco Tuesday. Thanks to the sorcery of organ clocks and protein prophecies, your kidneys are now arguing with your pancreas about who’s skipping ahead in the slow march towards decrepitude. And in the corner, a whirring, judgmental algorithm sips a kale smoothie and whispers: “Retinal scans indicate you have the arteries of a vintage cheese. Have you considered renegotiating your lease on corporeal functionality?” Once, the dreaded news came with symptoms—memory loss, chest pain, or a general feeling that you’re turning into your father. But now, no news is definitely bad news. Your phone pings. It’s not your crush—oh no. It’s a push notification from Medipocalypse™: ‘Alert: Your spleen has checked into Hotel Alzheimers at the speed of light. Would you like to sign up for our preemptive existential dread package, now bundled with sleep hygiene tips?’ For a low, low subscription fee, digital prophets throw your genetic code, grocery receipts, and the ghost of every skipped gym day into their mystical cauldron. Out comes a highly personalized prophecy, speaking less of your hopes and dreams, and more of cholesterol and micro-inflammations. Old-school palm reading is out; now, MRI phrenology and wearable data-ism are in. If you talk to your smart watch at midnight in the mirror, it will recite a risk score in Latin and then deduct $19.99 from your checking account. All this data is supposed to help you do heroic things, such as quit sugar, do more squats, and meditate while your fridge has Opinions about your choices. Prevention programs abound: get enough sleep and you MIGHT dodge doom. But if you slip—just once!—and double dip your chips, your future self gets a calendar invite titled ‘Dementia Onboarding.’ Pharmaceutical companies, thrilled at the opportunity to save mankind (or at least a portion of our event horizon), are readying a fleet of medications with names so long you’ll sprain your tongue. GLP-1? More like OMG-2, as in ‘Oh My God! 2 pills a day!’ One day soon AI might prescribe you enough anti-inflammatory wonders to turn your blood into cold brew. Meanwhile, your DNA looks on, filing class action lawsuits for being treated like a corporate PowerPoint. But before you think we’re saved, every new promise is just another data point on The Graph of Inevitable Decline. Clinical trials will confirm what your roommate’s tarot deck already told you: you can do yoga on a volcano while biting directly into turmeric root, but entropy’s coming—armed with NeuralNet-powered actuarial tables and a smoking juul. So, next time someone asks what you’re doing to slow the aging process, tell them you’re investing in high-quality sleep, kale futures, and immunity NFTs. Or, just sit back and let the machines tally your future, predicting Wednesday night existential crises as accurately as the weather—still mostly wrong, but much more smug about it. May your organ clocks tick slowly, and your risk scores be ever in your favor. Welcome to the era of soon-to-be-history—streamed live, with personalized commercials, straight into your arteries.