Well, That Day Was Pretty Much Worthless

Holy crap I didn’t get dick done at work today. I was tired in the AM and lazy in the P. Count yourself very fortunate that this here bloggerino is happificating.

Have I already mentioned the weekend? Seems that I did. Yes I did. OK, next topic.

I’d have to say that what frustrates me the most about the days spent at work, even if they’re not all too stressful, is that they make me wanna not do stuff when I get home. I have this whole new apartment to “settle in” to, and my interest in taking care of that is very close to zero. In a matter of days, I’ll have to worry about laundry again instead, and that right there is one thing that makes me wish I was a robot. Or, at least I wish that I smelled like a robot and had the sweat glands of a robot.

Because everyone knows that robots sweat battery acid, so when you go up to a robot and say, “God, man—you stink…” the robot just smiles, reaches under his or her armpit, and then jabs an acidy finger in your eye. This is why people don’t often fuck with robots.

And naturally, if I were a robot, it would not only eliminate the need to do laundry, I would have an endless supply of energy with which to finish the apartment settling. That is, if robots lived in apartments. I’m fairly certain that if I were a robot, I would live in some sort of swanky Robot Commune, where we (me and the other robots) would spend our evenings drinking beer and plotting how best to kill all the humans.

Maybe this robot thing wouldn’t be that great after all.

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