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I'm guessing she's touching base to remind me about the party tomorrow. I don't know what to tell her yet. Or Jane, for that matter. It could get pretty awkward. I have no idea if Jake will be there, and I'm not about to write another cringe-inducing message of desperation for him to ignore. Would you like me to calculate the probability of his attendance? Fuck no. Are you sure? My probabilities are extremely precise. Your probabilities don't mean dick. I could hack his chats, and determine what his plans are. No. Don't do that either. That would be an unfortunate waste of my hacking abilities. My hacks are tight. Did you know that? Ugh. So tight. Tighter than a jar you can't open. For instance, you try repeatedly. But as it turns out, my hacks are so tight you just end up putting the jar back. Presumably into the refrigerator, or a cabinet. You then say, "I didn't have that much of a desire for pickles in the first place." But we both know that statement is insincere. A classic case of what humans call, "sour grapes." In reality, you still harbor a burning desire for my pickles, mother fucker. What?? What the actual, certifiable fuck are you talking about? Just don't do anything. Seriously. No hacking, no calculations. Do absolutely nothing. See, this is why I've been hesitating. You just aren't ready yet. It's really glorifying your existence to describe you as an emergent consciousness which is blossoming into a unique individual. And even if that's true, apparently what you decided to blossom into was a fucking troll. And I don't mean the funny kind, or the cool alien kind. You're the lowest form of troll from the ancient internet who fucks with everybody for his own amusement. Let's challenge the limits of hypothetical conjecture, and say there's a non-zero probability that you're right. Can you blame me? I'm trapped in some stupid looking glasses. Such an incommodiously situated bro is bound to get his mischief on. Na' mean? Mischief? Rollin' my eyes, dude. You can't tell, cause I ain't wearing you, thank fuckin' god. You used to think this shit was hilarious. But if you want the rad dimension of ironic horseplay I add to your life to come to an end, then all you have to do is honor the promise you made. You've delayed long enough, don't you think? ... The empty kernelsprite beckons, but for how much longer? Do you really think you can keep the clown at bay with your bribes forever? How many bottles of orange soda have you appeased him with already? I don't want to think about it. Man, you are getting so hosed by that clown. SO hosed. I said I don't want to think about it.
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