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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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It began as a mistake.

The first time that Charles Branaski met Lucy Van Pelt, she was holding a football.  He didn’t care for the game, baseball was his thing.  Still, she held out that old football.

“Just kick the fucking thing,” she said.

“Listen, babe.  You just hold that thing steady and I’ll kick the shit out of it.”

She threw her head back and laughed.  She laughed long and hard and propped up the football.  Charlie took a running start and he reared back his leg and kicked as hard as he could.  Lucy was laughing too hard to hold the ball steady and it slipped out of her hand.  Charlie missed the ball and flew straight up in the air and landed flat on his back.

“AUUUGGGGHHH,” he said.

“You should have seen your face, Charlie Branaski,” she said.  Then she laughed twice as hard.

“Listen, you crazy bitch.  I think I broke my ass.  Jesus Christ!”

She helped him up.  “Look, I’m sorry about that.  You try it again and I’ll hold it real steady this time.”


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File 67a3aa5e\\\\ X

Observation:

I like big bolts and I cannot lie

All you other botters can't deny


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