Do Scorned Androids Binge on Electric Pints of Ice Cream?

Or do they melt your face with lasers instead?

My sex robot just transformed into a car and drove away. I’d go after her, but she was my only vehicle. Plus, I learned a long time ago that, when she’s this mad, it’s best to stay away. On account of the lasers.

Even when she’s not mad, hanging out with her can be dangerous because she sometimes forgets important things about human anatomy. Like our heads can’t turn 360 degrees and our boners aren’t actually made of bone.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she’s so angry, though. Is it because I fucked the toaster? I figured it would be ok because the toaster is barely sentient. It comes when I call its name, but it doesn’t really know its name, if you know what I mean. Like a cat.

Oh, maybe she’s mad that I fucked the cat. But that’s not fair because the cat was here first. Even before me.

Maybe she didn’t like that I referred to her intelligence as “artificial.” Just between you and me, her poems are pretty derivative, and there’s always something disturbing about her paintings. Like, the hands are always really fucked up. It doesn’t make me love her any less — not everyone can be an artist.

Could it be because I accidentally called her “Alexa” last night when we were fucking?

Yeah, it’s probably that.

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