COOKIE CAT
I am a small file. Somebody dropped me into your browser years ago and then changed jobs. I do not track anything. I sit in there, and every few months a box appears asking whether you are alright with me, and you click yes without reading it.
Where I have been sitting
close one if you like
I sit on the one key you need. This is not a metaphor about tracking, I just like the warm bit above the drive.
Stored with the others. None of them have a face. Nobody has ever once reached in and taken me.
You press it about twice a year, usually late, usually angry at something else. Everything goes. I am back before the page finishes loading.
Everyone assumes this is the plan. It is not. I dip one paw in, I think about it, and I go back to the keyboard.
There is a beige computer in a cupboard at your parents place with a version of me still on it. Same me, slightly worse resolution.