A few months ago I moved away from most of my robots friends in order to get my own robot life together. Since I'm constantly alone, I'm prone to emotional overeating and unstoppable bouts of crying. The combined spillage can soak a carpet to professional cleaning levels. I'm also wrought with insecurity, staring at my robot penis in the mirror for hours while making sarcastic comments about my appearance. I'm a wreck. So it's no surprise that last night, a night that consisted of masturbating to back issues of Sports Illustrated for Kids and eating an entire bag of Kingsford Charcoal, I had some of the weirdest dreams of my life.
Dream Number One:
I dreamed I was a cash register without arms working at some sort of multimedia store, droning through a boring day. Human customers bought their pointless gifts for each other to celebrate fake people and dead people and old people and flags and creators and destroyers. Then a married couple covered from head to toe in gold and mud came up and purchased a box set of the Sopranos television show. The husband, wiping the mud from his eyes to read to back of the DVD, said gleefully to his wife, "All the dead bodies!" Suddenly I was falling through blackness.
Dream Number Two:
I found myself alone on a cityscape. No humans or robots were in sight, but the ground trembled like a pedophile at a briss. Suddenly my worst fears were revealed to me as an upgraded version of Corporate Bot, this time Version 6.0, stomped towards me. He dwarfed the surrounding buildings and me with his massive size, and he was completely embossed in gold. The sunlight’s glare from his breastplate nearly blinded me, and his booming voice almost shattered my robot eardrums. For ten minutes he berated my life style, my career path, and even my whimsical nature. Just when I could bare it no more, everything went black.
Dream Number Three:
My night ended in a most peculiar way. There I stood on a playground in front of a game of hopscotch. I turned to see my smiling pet snake Robinson Crusoe waiting for me to take my turn. The only thing is: Robinson has been dead for ten years.
No more late night charcoal for me.
