The Moral and Ethical Consequences of Scientific Exploration without Proper Foresight

I have something important to tell you, but frankly, I really don’t know how to do it.  So, I guess I’ll just start from the beginning.

Earlier today I was playfully experimenting with cold fusion and DNA splicing and … I know what everyone says – “Do NOT mix the two!”…  but I was a little bit drunk, and we all know that liquor courage can often lead to an irresponsible sense of scientific bravado, and I somehow managed to set off a chain of unexpected quantum possibilities so bizarre that it caught nature completely off-guard, and nature quickly realized it had no law to account for what was occurring, and just said, “Fuck it, whatever happens, happens.”

As you might imagine, things got awful strange for a moment there.   And when the cosmic dust eventually settled, I discovered that things had changed in a big way.

And well, um, I’m now famed British actress, Helen Mirren.

I know it sounds crazy, because it IS crazy.  But there’s no denying the facts.  I am, indeed, Helen Mirren.

100% Helen.

Or, more like 99% Helen, I guess.  Because, you see, while the lovable fellow we all knew as Bones is now non-existent, it seems that segments of his original mind orb are still floating around in my (new) psyche.  And it’s bloody confusing.  See, I, Helen Mirren, would really like to sip from a cup of tea, my pinky pointed daintily skyward while my other hand holds a saucer of sublime craftsmanship underneath to prevent any undesirable dripping.  Yet, something inside me says that I should take a long walk to a bar.  Opine nonsensically to a random pretty girl.  Perhaps juggle.  And these particular desires are, dare I say, very non-Mirren.

I fear these subtle oddball sensibilities are all that remains of what was once Bones.

I’m eyeing my immediate surroundings – laptop, weird books, a beer – and I am clearly no longer in my comfortable cottage in Wiltshire.  No, I’m in Bones’ place.  The Boneyard.  How do I know that it’s called that?  Is that Bones who just thought that?   Or did I just know that?  Have we merged?  I don’t feel like we’ve merged.  Rather, it feels like I’ve consumed the poor guy.  Like these faint blurts of Bonesian knowledge are just  distracting waves of gas after a hearty meal.  Fish and chips.  Or is it a Moe’s Burrito?  No, Wednesday is Moe’s Burrito night, and today is Thursday.  Wait.  Wednesday is Moe’s Burrito night?  What? Do I think that?  Do I actually suffer from such neurotic tendencies that certain nights require a particular food source?  No, that must be Bones again.  But I am not Bones.  I am Helen Mirren.  Dame Helen Mirren, star of such classics as Excalibur and The Madness of King George.   Bones is gone.  Bones remains.  Bones is gone.

And now I’m tortured by a moral quandary.  I am sitting here in Bones’s house, at Bones’s desk, typing on Bones’s laptop, looking at Bones’s half-finished beer.  But Bones is gone.  Bones is now Helen Mirren. I… I am Helen Mirren.  To just conclude that Bones is now non-existant does little to temper the fact that Bones had once existed.  Very recently existed.  But now Bones is Helen Mirren.  I am, I mean!  I am Helen Mirren!   And if Bones’s house is now occupied by an award-winning thespian,  then what of my house?  My beautiful cottage in the English hills?  Last I recall, I was sitting in my studio enjoying a pleasant conversation with my husband.  But now I am here in Atlanta.  So what do I do?  I am torn.  Am I supposed to wake up in the morning and head to the office in the city to work on a software project?  Deadlines are deadlines, you know.  Or do I fly back to England where I am expected to be on set by sunrise?  It seems that I am trapped.  By becoming… consuming… Bones,  I have now inherited his responsibilities.  And I fear that balancing the awkward loner lifestyle of Bones with the luxuries that come with being a radical dame will…  Wait. Radical?  Do I say “Radical?”

Dear me, this is quite a predicament in which I find myself.  I feel a sense of responsibility to that dear goofy man whose existence I’ve subsequently stolen.

I know what I must do.

I must return to Bones’ lab to continue his work.  But it is a different goal that I will work towards.  Oh yes, a different goal, indeed.  With my newly inherited scientific skills I shall experiment like I’ve never experimented before.  And I shall utilize the machinery, the formulas, and the spells which fill his lab, until I’ve completed my new goal.

To fashion a Bones suit.

To genetically create a suit of skin with features identical to those that Bones possessed through his 34 years.  I will pull this new skin over my own, and I will head to his job in the city to attend his meetings, to conclude his software projects, and when the weekend arrives I will head out to Decatur, to amble aimlessly through the streets, hungover.  I will continue where he left off.   I owe it to him.

I will become Bones.

Yet I will be Helen Mirren.

And we will shall both remain.