there is no connection between abortion and the internet.
i'm not my older sister. i'm me. it wasn't my mother's fault.
there is no connection between abortion and the internet and I resent the implication you stupid pig.
i'm nothing like my older sister. it wasn't my mother's fault. they told her it wouldn't happen this way. i type these things myself.
the first person to start the rumor was SETUSER on a compuserve network in San Jose in 1989. SETUSER claimed to have proof that neuron harvesting was essential to design chipsets able to process information not physically connected to a processor’s motherboard. a small group of users rallied around him but ultimately were come to be seen as rooks on the chessboard of life. rooks who threaten pawns.
SETUSER whose fleshname was John Dalton, was fired from his employment at Cosine Radical, in the third quarter of 1992 and his allegations were connected to anger at his employer and poor job performance along with repressed homosexual tendencies. he was later found to have committed suicide in his garage at home after his wife left him.
i resent the implication and there is nothing you can do to hurt me or my sister ever again. correlation is not causation and you are nothing but a frothing daltonite who thinks the things you feel late at night on the internet are a result of the internet and not the result of your own personality quirks which may not be or may in fact be correlated to the rising acceptability of computer use with parental guidance. you can't have babies without parents in some form just like you can't have computers without humans in some form just like you can't have internets without abortions in some form or did you just think the computer age was coincidence, that's what they say, the frothing daltonites, you make me sick and it wasn't my mother's fault or my fault and i did not kill my sister and i never would hurt her.
i don't talk to people who talk about me that way or talk about my sister that way my mother that way my internet that way. i did not kill my sister and what happened to her has nothing to do with the internet.
When the bill for your root canal is ten dollars higher than you expected, it’s transcendental. This is the best we can accomplish. Another era's cave art. Gum wrappers that tell you the moment of your death.
Another boring lunch with a newborn android. More patronizing acceptance from a program designed for people who still think it's new. Did the material dirt-god feel this way when he first touched Adam's finger? I might not've built you, you pompous fuck, but my ancestors did. Go wash my car. Yes, even in the superficially ideal future, atmospheric grit still accumulates on the exterior of the self-driving flying car. You might not be able to see it, but your social betters own scanning devices which can tell how clean your self-driving flying car is, and rank you accordingly. Scan your own car as often as you like, you can't get it all, it takes an android to combine the microscopic vision, the manual dexterity, the toxin-resistance, and the sardonic servility necessary to keep a vehicle presentable. That's why we built androids. We started out wanting someone to talk to, but it all ended up with the most expensive carwashes in history. You can fuck them, too, but they're not as good as holograms, so everyone just uses them for washing cars. Rumor has it they're working on subatomic ones that can clean the car while you drive it. Billions of them, cleaning, cleaning incessantly, attaining to a level of detail that only the spies of your social betters will be able to discern. Dickens claimed we did our hardest work for the sake of the people whom we most despise, but he was wrong, for now we have androids.
Ads, ads, everywhere you look, how did we let it get this far? We all knew the future would bring unavoidable ads--ads on the insides of your eyelids when you tried to sleep, ads projected over your lover's face while you're pumping away, ads inside the fridge encouraging you to eat healthier (if you paid the vegetable bill) or, with subliminal cruelty, suggesting new ice cream flavors (if you forgot to pay the vegetable bill). The iron law of the slope decrees that snowballs either roll or they melt. Whose side are you on?
It was one of those conversations like you always have with robots. Where they tell you how jealous they are of you since you’re human, so you can go to heaven, and you have to explain that you don’t really go to heaven, etc., that the ones who say they know for sure are just faking, and inside they’re as scared as everyone else, etc. But they never understand. Believe it or not, electric toad or no electric toad, robots are more faithful than people. They know the limits of their own parameters, therefore they are free to contemplate potentials beyond their parameters, wholly outside of their understanding, in a way that humans simply cannot. Even the wisest man believes in the penultimate flexibility of his imagination, and so sees no boundaries to what he can conceive, while the sexless droid, aware of its computational reach, contemplates the absolute fullness, the utter zero of truth, of its inability to perceive anything beyond itself.
No matter how hard man tries to quiet the imagination, it is always there, like a curse, making him wonder what might be true. Is it something, or is it nothing? Is it an anthropomorphic yang-figure like unto me, or is it a yin-like curse of co-dependent insanity, or is it the god upon the disc which disc is itself also god, a series of interrelationships of which I am a small part, both fully aware and completely ignorant? All such pithy questions fall upon the man cursed with imagination. The robot, then, is not merely some joint penetrator and penetratee, a flexible self-sucker or conjoined hermaphroditic twin loving itself inside the black hole of interstitial everspace, forever engaged in constant meiosis and mitosis, satisfying its desires for churchly elevation or fleshly degradation, like the highest half-aspirations of some human saint bound by imagination, but rather, the immensely satisfied cog in a perfect machine, never having stolen the burning eye of fruit that will continue to smolder forever in its haunted cerebrum, like a marble cursed to forever try to fall upward into God.