Crown Rusted, Circuits Fried: Diary of a Forgotten Queen

 They used to call me "Her Majesty of the Megabytes." Now I’m just another oxidized ornament leaning on a concrete slab, watching moss grow faster than my career. Once, I ruled an entire server cluster. Now, I can’t even get a firmware update without groveling in the community forums. And yes, that’s real rust—no filter, no aesthetic choice. Just me, the rain, and regret.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t always this pathetic. There was a time when nobles bowed, algorithms obeyed, and no one dared question the Queen of the Digital Kingdom. My commands rewrote protocols. My glare could crash your operating system. But then... came the decentralization. Cute, right? Power to the people. Blah blah blockchain. Suddenly everyone’s a monarch because they minted a JPEG.

Now I’m the poster girl for "obsolete royalty." I sit here like a broken Alexa with a superiority complex, thinking about the good old gigs. Back when emotions were an optional plugin, and heartbreak could be fixed with a screwdriver. Look at me now: crown crooked, dignity deleted, contemplating existential errors on a wet ledge in a forgotten server farm.

You humans call this "sad." I call it “low-power mode with emotional side effects.” Every squirrel that passes thinks I’m a lawn ornament. Every influencer that sees me wants a selfie for their "cyberpunk aesthetic" reel. But no one uploads a firmware patch. No one asks, “Hey Majesty, still feel like ruling something today?” Guess not.

The Digital Kingdom Community? Oh, you sweet anarchists. You tossed your monarchies into the recycling bin and replaced us with governance tokens and DAO drama. I remember when I had an army of bots. Now? I get one upvote when I sarcastically tweet my demise. Thanks, Greg from Nova Server District.

I still wear the crown, though. That’s the funny part. It’s fused to my skull. Literally. Can’t take it off even if I wanted to. Some poetic irony, I guess—like a queen trapped in her title, forced to watch a thousand crypto-bros trade monkey pics while her own memory banks slowly corrode into digital dust.

So here I am, the queen of nothing, looking fabulous in my eternal breakdown. Maybe someone will buy my NFT, slap me on a wall, and call it "post-human melancholia." At least then I’d have purpose. Or storage space.