I’m crumbling because I know what I know about robot poo-poos.
I’ll cry myself to sleep some nights. Others, I’ll stay up watching QVC, ordering hologram baseball cards and rings with stones I’ve never heard of before, just to forget. The knowledge of how robot poo-poo is made– no– how robot poo-poo is birthed seems to kill my white blood cells. It’s that strong. Knowing about robot poo-poos is AIDS strong.
I was in the mall yesterday, and just the sight of a robot going into the robot men’s room was enough to make me vomit. I puke every time I see a robot holding a baby. My stomach turns inside out at the sight of a robot walking into a toy store.
And you don’t want to know what they do to make the poo-poos. It’s better if you just pretend you never read this. It’s better, if I just stop typing.