“My sensors indicate that you are being a massive bitch right now,” Robo-Mitch revealed.
Sarah slapped him. He felt no pain, because he was a robot.
“I’ll show you ‘bitch!'” she screamed, and kicked him hard in the groin. She broke her shin.
“LMAO. You can’t harm me now that I’ve transplanted my brain into this robot body. I’m fucking invincible!” Robo-Mitch laughed, and turned back to his TV, continuing to play Ignore-Your-Girlfriend 5 on his Playstation VR, where he was doing the exact same thing in-game as he was in real life.
“Wow, so realistic!” he exclaimed.
“If you’re going to keep ignoring me, maybe we should just break up,” Sarah said tearfully.
Robo-Mitch knew she was bluffing. Sure they fought, but their love was stronger than the diamond ring he refused to buy her.
He gestured toward the doorway, still facing the TV.
“It was nice knowin’ ya babe :3 ” he said.
“You asshole!” she yelled and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
On the way out of the apartment, she almost tripped over the present he’d left for her. She opened it and gagged. In the box, was his heart. No longer necessary in his robot-body, and the perfect token of his adoration for her.
“Fucking gross,” she laughed, and read the card that’d been taped to the box.
“My dearest Sarah,
You know you’ll always have my heart LOL.
She knew beyond the grotesque joke it was true. Sure, he’d been addicted to that stupid video game for a few days, but besides his stupid obsession with obscure indie video games, he’d been a great boyfriend. Strong, caring, always there when she needed him for the last 3 years now. Her only real problem with him was that he refused to stop calling himself Robo-Mitch.
But after he put his brain inside a robot body, those few weeks ago, something about him changed. Something besides literally everything composing his physical body. His attitude had changed. He’d become more ambitious, more daring. He told her he’d been planning to propose to her. But in his new robot-eyes, the diamond he’d picked out for her didn’t seem enough. He wanted to give her something better than “a stupid stone with poor resell-value.” But what exactly he was planning he refused to tell her until he had it.
“I am a mud man,” said the Mud Man, whose name will only be capitalized once.
“Okay, what can I do for you?” asked the store clerk.
“I need something to help me with mud,” he moaned.
“What are you trying to do with mud?” the clerk asked.
“I need help with it,” he repeated, impatiently.
The clerk knew this was going to be difficult, so she lifted her shirt up, grabbing under her bra, and flashed the Mud Man her bare breasts.
“WHOAAAA” he moaned, and fainted.
When the mud man awoke, he was tied to a chair. The clerk was there.
“My name is Karen, and I’m a grocer,” she said, “And if you don’t tell me what you’re trying to do with mud, I’m going to cut you into pieces and no one will ever know because you’re made out of mud.
The mud man tried to scream, but a sock was inside his mud mouth.
Karen took a baseball bat, and slammed his mud knee with it.
Mud man moaned in pain.
She removed the sock and he confessed.
“I’m not really a mud man, I’m a man covered in mud,” he admitted.
Karen took a bucket of water and splashed him with it, revealing a man who actually WAS made of mud.
“I LIED,” he laughed, “I’M MADE OUT OF MUD, BABY.”
And then he broke free from the chair and stormed out of the room, back into the store. He grabbed a bottle of sun tan lotion and scanned it by himself.
“2 dollars and forsssometimes it’s better to just not write anything at all than to write a story about a mud man visiting a convenience store. Maybe some day I’ll actually get my shit together and be able to sit down and actually write something worth reading,
” the mudman said to himself as he sighed and looked over at Karen. Beautiful sleeping Karen, his wife, supporting a failed writer who was also a mud man. What a joke his life was. She deserved better, as hard as he tried to be a good man. He knew he made her happy though, and as long as she was happy, he could keep on in spite of his own disappointment in himself.
Mudman took a cigarette from the bedside table and stepped outside. The air was cold and uncaring of the concerns of a man made out of mud. He shivered a little as he lit up and thought about how he’d gotten here.
He thought in particular about that day in high school when he’d first met Karen; him a foreign mud-exchange student, her the president of the Science Club with an interest in how a man could be made out of mud and somehow talk and walk like an actual human.
And Ricky Chang, the bully who almost stole her from him.
Ricky fucking Chang.
To be continued.
- CONFIDENCE IS KEY. If you want a girl to like you, and you’re completely unlikable, you just have to be confident, and she’ll automatically like you no matter what. You don’t even have to actually be confident, you can just PRETEND to be confident, and it works just as well.
Here’s an example- this is actually how it will work every single time:
Loser: Hi, I’m a confident man.
Girl: Holy shit, please impregnate me immediately.*
*you don’t have to impregnate her immediately, or at all, but her natural lust for your confidence will get the better of her, causing this embarrassing display of distraction. That’s why it’s always advised to approach women in secluded areas when they’re alone- so they don’t embarrass themselves in front of a crowd.
- COMPLIMENT HER ONCE, AND THEN NEVER AGAIN. Girls live off of compliments like vampires live off of blood. It costs valuable mental resources to continue feeding a girl compliments throughout your relationship with her, which is why you should nail her with one single, exceptional compliment that will leave her satisfied for her entire life. The compliment isn’t as much a positive note about her, as it is a derogatory remark about all other women, who she naturally hates. It goes as follows:
“All women besides you are hideous bitches.”
Record this for her, and put it on her mp3 player, and her heart will be yours forever.
- SABOTAGE YOUR COMPETITION. The idea that men should be loyal to one another over women is a classic example of male-sabotage. This “bro code” law was created by a fat loser exactly like you to discourage other men from pursuing his woman. The reality is that friendships come and go as easily as relationships. The difference? Your man-friend isn’t going to have sex with you, OR watch you play single-player video games. When you’re a loser, building yourself up isn’t an option- it requires a level of effort that if you had, you wouldn’t be a fat loser to begin with. Your only other option? Make everyone seem like a bigger loser than you are. Take up baking, and serve your physically fit friends delicious fudge brownies. Steal their gym membership cards. Buy them a dog and teach it to eat their college textbooks. Anything you can do to set someone else back, is setting yourself up. When your mutual friends who are girls see that your once-mighty friends have become disasters, you’ll appear much more palatable-
That’s when you confidently tell her how much you hate all women besides her.
Let the wedding bells ring, baby.
I asked her,
“Honey, where do you want to go to eat tonight?”
She answered me in such a way that made my brain spasm and my vision blur. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what I was hearing. Her answer– at least I’ve always assumed it was a her. Her physical presence defies all logic and explanation but I have to believe that her not vibrating my brain into jelly must be a sign of romantic interest– it stunned me in a way that she had not normally done, despite every waking and sleeping moment with her forcing me to hopelessly attempt to reconcile my previous perception of reality with the fact that I laid in bed with something so horrible that there are no words in any language I’ve studied that can hope to begin to describe it.
She wanted to go to Applebee’s.
DON’T STOP READING THIS
No, nothing’s going to happen to you, you’re not going to get killed by a ghost of a little girl or anything. Ghosts don’t exist, and if a little girl ever tried killing me, I’d kick her head clean off her body.
I just want to get something off my chest.
I’m going to tell you a story.
And if you dig it, hit that like button, would you? If you’re picking up what I’m laying down, give this status a like so I know I’m doing good here. So I know I’m making a difference.
This is the story of a young man, and how he lost his virginity.
Now to a lot of people, sex is a huge deal. It’s put up on this pedestal and considered the ultimate symbol of love and affection. Not to me, not to me.
I see sex as something much less completely insane. I see it as a largely inconsequential act. Even for the first time a person does it, it doesn’t change who you are. See, we all fucking KNOW this, but nobody wants to have the fucking discussion.
So just keep reading, stay with me.
Like I said, I just said it a few sentences back- having sex doesn’t change a person. And this idea applies to the protagonist of my story.
His name was Alex, and he was a 200 foot tall robot.
400 fucking years old, and the kid had never gotten laid. Everyone always says “there’s plenty of fish in the sea”. Shit, I’VE said that, unironically, when people come to me after they’ve split with their significant other.
People actually come to me for advice, and I’m spouting out worthless platitudes. Forget that though, because we’re focusing on Alex now.
So he’s a bigass robot, right? Forget about fish in the sea. There’s no 200 foot tall robots in galaxy, and if there were, who the fuck would want to have sex with a robot that’s FOUR HUNDRED FUCKING YEARS OLD, and still a virgin?
Do you know how many days are in four hundred years? One hundred and forty-six THOUSAND.
We’re talking about a superhuge robot with no social skills. Now, is it his fault? Absolutely. He has rocket-boots, and can definitely probably just fly across the Universe in search of a hole for his 50-foot steel peg. But fuck playing the blame game here, we’ve got a real problem.
This guy needs to get laid. He’s not fucking happy, he needs a female robot. Let’s call them febots. Or whatever, it doesn’t matter.
Look, the guy COMES TO ME. He says “Ray, I need help.” Keep in mind, please keep in mind, that this “guy” is a 200 foot tall robot. Every sound that comes out of his mouth-box is like having my head replaced with a drum and just slamming a big rock through it. And then throwing a cymbal through a window.
After I wake up, he turned his volume down and told me his non-issue.
I told him, “Look, giant robot” (Please, call me Alex, he said– I obliged) “Look, Alex. Sex isn’t going to make you happy. Life is fucking cold, and it’s terrifying, and there’s nothing inside of a giant robot-woman’s vagina, however warm it could possibly be– I imagine possibly like an oven– there’s nothing in there that’s going to make you feel whole. Make you feel like what you’re doing really matters.
“I don’t care,” he said.
I sighed and I helped him make a dating profile on some intergalactic dating site. It’s like on the internet, except all of the information is shot directly into our brains, making our own vision the user interface. It was extremely unpleasant, but I wanted to help the guy, because he’s a 200 foot robot and I was SO fucking along for the ride.
So we find him a girl he likes, I coach him on what to say to her. Neither of them really want anything long-lasting, like Spearmint. They want Juicy Fruit. Sweet and short. Not exactly refreshing, but at least your mouth’s wet.
They agree to meet up in a nice, public area and get some coffee. Robots can drink coffee, they can drink whatever the hell they want to, why wouldn’t they?
I watched the whole thing go down from a table close by like a fucking WWII spy. Exactly like a WWII spy, because it was Halloween and everyone was dressed up; myself as a WWII spy. American. I can only give you my name, rank, and serial number.
But let’s get back to them. They were having the time of their lives. Laughing at robot things, I guess. I wasn’t REALLY paying too much attention, because my waitress really cute and I was trying to think of an appropriate way of asking her out.
Then, the robots walked out. I could tell because of all the shaking and screaming. But that doesn’t matter- WHAT MATTERS is that LIKE I FUCKING SAID, the morning after, what happened?
He got his robot dick slick with grease, and he was still the same person. She got jackhammered by a literal jackhammer, and she was still the same person. None of it fucking mattered, and just because they’re robots doesn’t mean the same thing doesn’t apply to human beings.
Here’s the bottom line. Sex is cool and all, but you’ve got to have more. But what is more? Is it having common interests? Spending mindless time just /being/ together? I think the real goal of a relationship- any relationship, whether there’s sex or not, is a strong friendship.
So Alex the robot comes back to me again, asking for advice. This time he asked the right question. He asked me “How do I be happy?”
I told him to call up whatever her fucking name was and ask her if she wants to hang out and do robot things. I even offered to come as the awkward 3rd wheel.
But now get this- SHE only wanted a one-night stand. She wasn’t looking for something more. She was already happy, completely satisfied with their transaction.
Alex was moody for a week, but he got over it. I convinced him to keep looking. He took off with his rocket boots, and went space backpacking. I don’t think it’s the best idea and I worry about him, but if some adventure will help him, then I’m all for it.
Last I heard from him, he was somewhere in deep space trying to find himself, which I dig. How can you find some kind of “soul mate” if you haven’t even found yourself first? And how can you find yourself on Earth if you’re a big fucking robot? You can’t. I think he’ll be okay. He’s out there. He’s not giving up. He lived and learned.
Because ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS GOING TO SURPASS HUMANITY ONE DAY, BUDDY. GET USED TO IT. OUR BRAINS ARE JUST MACHINES, AND ALL MACHINES CAN BE IMPROVED UPON.
anyway. thanks for reading. if you’re reading this, you’re obviously a great person. duh.
Right, I’m done. So yeah. If I hear anything from Alex, I’ll make sure to post it in the future. Like 1000 years or however long it’ll take his message to reach Earth. Bye for now.