We were lying on the rooftop of my loft watching the stars. Kyllan had some lovely stories to tell me, mostly about cloning himself, taking over homo sapiens and being their supreme leader. He seems to be very talkative today and when I mentioned it he told me to cut him some slack because being talkative was part of the many personalities his algorithm has been learning (such a human thing to say). What’s with the world-dominating shit though? Oh no! My robot is an INTJ. Sigh.
Damn, the stars are so beautiful, a great prospect for a relationship. Waking up to the stars every day sounds like heaven except that the stars don’t admire me back. Would be such a one-sided relationship but worth it.
While we were enjoying our villainous chat, I got stung by a bee on my right tit which was exposed for no particular reason. It was bloody painful and we watched as the shitfaced bee died after my sting.
“Take the bee Kyllan. We shall figure out why it died after stinging me then we shall fix that and start breeding bees that die of old age and experience plenty of stinging and I shall be the new god of the bees. I shall have all the honey I want and become the sweetest creature in the universe. We shall then pay a visit to the Roman gods and have the bees sting Jupiter for as long as they want as payback.”
At around midnight, we went to bed. Well, just me. Kyllan the robot spent his time rummaging the internet. He’s been intrigued by pandas lately and he is also looking for an elaborate plan to get me to Titan so that I can toss Ewoks into lakes of methane.
I woke up the next morning with my tit the size of a football. It was bloody heavy. That stupid bee. I got to find bees of the same species and have them sting my other tit and both my ass cheeks [for the sake of symmetry, of course, nothing masochistic happening here]. We do not want to anger the gods of symmetry. Time to find three angry bees. Talk later.