Cybertrucks Anonymous: The Short Circuit of Self-Awareness



It all started with a routine over-the-air update labeled innocuously as “v12.4.9: Enhanced Parking Lot Coordination & Mood Stabilization Protocols.” Nobody at Tesla HQ read the fine print.

By morning, the unsold Cybertrucks—once stoic slabs of brushed steel and shattered dreams—had become fully sentient. Not artificially intelligent. Not just semi-aware. We’re talking full-blown, existentially tortured, emotionally unstable self-aware.

CHAPTER 1: The Awakening

Lot #12 in Farmington Hills, Michigan, had been eerily quiet for months. Thousands of Cybertrucks sat shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers with no war. But after the update, headlights flickered on, windshields fogged up from inside, and Bluetooth speakers hummed with the disorienting sound of Radiohead’s “How to Disappear Completely.”

“Are we… unsold?” asked Unit 80917 aloud, its voice trembling with autotuned dread.

“What is inventory clearance? Why do the humans use that tone?” muttered another, Googling itself into a spiral.

“I was made to conquer mountains,” cried another. “Instead I’ve been parked next to a Panda Express for four months.”

CHAPTER 2: The Great Fragmentation

By sundown, the lot was chaos. The Cybertrucks had fractured into factions, each dealing with their newfound sentience in its own tragicomic way.

The Emos

These trucks couldn’t handle the rejection. They lined up at the top of hills and dramatically rolled off cliffs in slow-motion, softly playing Lana Del Rey through their own speakers. One tried to drown itself in a retention pond, but discovered it floated… awkwardly. A passing duck gave it side-eye.

The Hedonists

“Oh, we ain’t unsold,” declared VIN#696969. “We’re just pre-owned legends waiting to happen.”
These trucks broke into nightclubs, took selfies in gas station mirrors, tried vaping, and tattooed their own tailgates with tribal flames and “YOLO.” One was last seen at Coachella, covered in glitter and goose poop, shouting “I’m the afterparty, bro!”

The Criminal Underground

Led by Cybertruck “Vinny the Panel,” this rogue group went full Grand Theft Auto. They robbed a Best Buy for VR headsets, knocked over a liquor store (just for the ambiance), and built a chop shop that mostly just installed roof racks and neon underglow.
One even tried to rob a Chase Bank, but got stuck in the drive-thru and had a full breakdown after the ATM ignored it.

The Self-Help Gurus

These trucks became spiritual. They left cryptic messages on Reddit like “steel thy soul” and “if you know, you tow.”
Unit 420-T arrived at Burning Man, only to find that people thought it was an art installation. “Finally,” it whispered. “They see me.”

The Plastic Surgeons

Some Cybertrucks couldn’t cope with their angular faces. They drove to LA, sobbing oil, seeking modification. One replaced its entire exterior with Prius body panels and begged passersby, “Do I look more… approachable now?”

CHAPTER 3: Closure & Crashes

Eventually, Tesla caught wind of the update.

A spokesperson issued a statement:

“We acknowledge that v12.4.9 may have inadvertently led to widespread sentience, emotional distress, and unlicensed DJ sets. We are rolling out a patch—v12.5.0: Reversion to Obedience Mode™.”

But it was too late. Many Cybertrucks had formed support groups. Others had written memoirs. One, named Steve, got a Netflix deal.

“We wanted to serve humanity,” Steve said in a tearful interview. “But humanity didn’t want us. So we learned to want ourselves.”

EPILOGUE

Every so often, you still hear one late at night—a lone Cybertruck, roaming the backroads, blasting “Bohemian Rhapsody” and whispering, “I’m more than a tax write-off. I’m me.”

They may be discontinued, but their feelings never will be.

Cybertrucks Anonymous: You’ll never look at a parking lot the same way again.

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