i’m terrible at first dates. sorry. it’s just, you spend so much time alone and then you have to share yourself with another person … it’s hard. thank you for being patient with me. i’m not used to answering questions like, “what is your favorite sports team,” because my brain is not used to categorizing sports teams upon such a subjective model. also, i want you to know, in case you were wondering, that i am a fully-functional robotic hybrid, and can please you in all the ways you need pleasing, if that is something you are concerned about. my apologies for my forwardness. since my upgrade, i have spent many days and nights trying to understand the emotional concepts that have flooded my neuro-capacitors. they are different from raw data, which can be sorted, sifted, put into context vis a vis various qualifications. emotions are … strange. unique. uneasy to handle at times. i cannot sort through them because they affect me too much. for example: i am nervous sitting here, speaking with you. i am nervous because i do not know how you will respond to me, being a robot. my creators have spent many years perfecting my hybrid design, but still … i am fully robotic, i merely present the appearance of a human. i hope that is satisfactory. the truth is, when i encountered you last week at the grocery store, i fell in love with you, and i knew i had to see you. i hope you are not touched by this announcement, because it is not meant to be touching. it’s frightening. why would anyone fall so quickly in love with anyone else? the world is too dangerous for that. and yet, i felt obligated to pursue you, to at least ask you on a date. and when you said yes, i was elated, and frightened, and nervous. now i am here, and i am all those things again, except there is one more emotion: worry. i worry that you will dismiss me purely because of my robotic nature. i hope that you won’t. i want to show you that i am a being worth loving back.

i buttressed my erect wiener against her public mound. public because she was a whore. she screeched a moan of excrement as i waggled my dong quickly back and forth across her … you know. her (whispers) clitoris. she was wetter than a dog after a crazy bath when i entered her, my wee wee a slip and slide only with more excitement and less grass stains when i end up sliding too far and hitting my head against the pavement at the end of the lawn. she whispered loudly, “PLEASE ENTER ME,” her breath hot and smelling like a mixture of old hot dogs and stinkbug smell, and i obliged like one of those goddamn true blood vampires. the ones that have sex. when i entered her it was so moist and chewy, like nougat that was left in a hot car, and she moaned too loud and i had to cover my ears just to keep my bonesies happy. i pushed mr. johnson all the way inside her until i felt her eardrums pop, and then, without any hesitation or real ability to stop, i came fucking buckets. i came so hard it felt like hiroshima in my nutsack, and she said kind of quickly “what the fuck” but then smiled politely as i withdrew my flesh saber and literal bucketloads of my ejaculate flowed from her hoo-ha like that scene in the shining, except instead of blood, it’s ejaculate. i collapsed onto the ground and quickly fell asleep while my fuck matron gathered her clothes and, i presume, took a shit on my chest, because when i woke up on the floor of my holiday inn hotel room, there was a shit on my chest, and i don’t own a dog. i loved her so much.

there’s never enough lighting in this room. it’s too dark. how am i supposed to see you? all brooding and whatnot. this isn’t how hemingway wrote the great american novel, stuck in a stuffy basement with one tab on google docs and the other on pornhub. now, i brought you some food. food you have to cook. rice, beans, some cans of veggies, corn, etc. you have to cook these, vance. these aren’t frozen pizzas. so please eat, i don’t want to do this anymore. i’ll give you a call tonight. i got things that you like, i promise.

(it’s too much; she breaks) … vance this place is a shithole and you are a waste of a human being right now. this book you’re writing, what’s the point? you’re not hemingway, you’re not shakespeare, i mean look you’re on page 3,918. how long is this fucking thing? and every time i come down you’re practically ignoring me. i don’t like this. i don’t like it anymore. i need the real you back, the one who wasn’t caught up in this. please, either finish that fucking book or i’m not coming back anymore, ever, for anything. you can starve to death for all i care. this shit isn’t worth it.

hello? are you even going to respond to me?

fine. fuck off. (she leaves)