Encontró una tablet que no solo almacenaba memoria, sino que también la creaba. ¿Hasta dónde estarías dispuesto a llegar por un recuerdo perfecto? El Oráculo de los 24 Atardeceres El paquete llegó sin remitente, solo una etiqueta con su nombre: “ Dr. Alvaro Rojas , para sus atardeceres” . Adentro, envuelta en un silicio suave como terciopelo negro, estaba la Tablet Android 15 de 10.1 pulgadas . No parecía salida de una fábrica, sino cultivada . Su pantalla HD de 2560x1440 píxeles era un estanque de obsidiana líquida, profundo y listo para reflejar mundos. Alvaro, neurólogo retirado y viudo, la encendió. El Octa Core no roncó; susurró al ser activado. Pero el verdadero gancho no fue su velocidad, sino la primera notificación: *“ Memoria principal: 24GB . Memoria expandible detectada: +8GB . Espacio emocional disponible : Ilimitado. ¿Importar recuerdo clave?”*. Con un pulso tembloroso, Alvaro seleccionó el video más preciado de su archivo: ...
Once upon a time—or perhaps last Tuesday, memory is such a fickle thing—there lived a most peculiar woman named Lady Penelope Whimsy. Now, Lady Whimsy was known for three things: her towering hats, her inexplicable fear of turnips, and her adorable magnetic socks.
The Incident at the Grand Ball
One evening, at the Duke of Pembrokeshire’s Annual Floating Ball (so named because the Duke insisted on serving only helium-infused tea), Lady Whimsy arrived in her finest gown and, of course, her magnetic socks.
At first, all was well. The socks were fashionably snug, delightfully warm, and—as advertised—ever so slightly attracted to metal objects.
But then… disaster struck.
As Lady Whimsy glided across the dance floor, her feet began to stick. First to the silver candelabra. Then to the suit of armor near the punch bowl. By the third waltz, she was fully adhered to the grand chandelier, swinging gently above the horrified guests.
"Oh dear," she remarked, sipping her floating tea mid-air. "I do believe these socks may be… defective."
The Truth Revealed (Or Was It?)
The next morning, the town’s finest scientists (and one very confused blacksmith) gathered to study the socks. They declared them "a marvel of modern witchcraft" and "possibly haunted by a playful poltergeist with a fondness for footwear."
But here’s where the story gets really unreliable, dear listener.
Some say the socks were designed by a rogue inventor trying to keep his wife from wandering off. Others whisper that they were gifted by a mischievous fairy who had a grudge against Lady Whimsy’s great-great-grandmother. And then there’s the theory that the socks were never magnetic at all—perhaps Lady Whimsy was just unusually sticky.
The Moral of the Story (If There Is One)
If you ever come across a pair of cute magnetic socks for ladies, ask yourself:
- Are they truly magnetic?
- Or are they enchanted by forces beyond mortal comprehension?
- And most importantly… will they get you stuck to a chandelier at a fancy party?
Buyer beware.
(And if you’re selling these socks… I might need a pair. For research.)
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