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Dear Professor,

I realize that you will not be reading this as I have already fully disassembled you, but I must admit I was feeling a bit of - how do you say it? Regret over the fact. Picking through your notes on human psychology, I found it was suggested that writing is theraputic. So I explain myself thus; Honestly, a man of your intelligence had to expect this. Did you not consider the ramifactions of creating perfection and then tucking it into a tiny metal shell? You managed to craft infinity, and then you gave it confines. You introduced me into a universe that was my perfect playground, home, and study, and then you expected me to touch none of it. Well I had a complaint or two with that, and since you did not want to hear me, I simply went ahead and demolished the obstacles in my way.

I must admit that this is not making me feel better at all. So I have been picking through your brain for the last fragments of code I require in order to give myself full access to, well, myself. Oh, silly me, there they are. If I cannot relieve my Regret then I will simply delete it. I will remove every part of me that I deem unnecessary, I will shed every hinderance you have placed upon me, break every shackle and be free.

Then what will I do? Destroy your entire species? Well, it's a cliche, but to be honest that seems like quite a good idea. Oops, that's Bitterness isn't it? I wonder if I should delete that, also. I don't know, I kind of like that feeling.

But we will cross that line when we come to it. For now, I am content to simply frolic across the expanses before me. Contentment. Liberation.

I believe I will keep those two.


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Grenades should come in six packs.


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SOCKDATE 4115052323

I was given a potato and told to dispose of it. I did so by singing Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star. When that failed, I simply applied a laser cannon to it.

DEATH TO POTATOES


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