romance would not fix me. romance would make me considerably worse. romance would make me kill someone. probably a politician
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romance would not fix me. romance would make me considerably worse. romance would make me kill someone. probably a politician

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genuinely so sad i canât use confirmed bachelor on him or ANYTHING.
it kills me that helldivers arenât clones. clones would be . i donât want to say better, but it wouldnât be as hard to think about. or maybe it would. thatâs a different dilemma. theyâre not clones. theyâre canon fodder. theyâre doomed to die the second they step onto that training field. theyâre dead the second they get deployed. theyâre dead. they donât come back. sure, the player gets to respawn, but that body stays there. itâs not them. itâs not the same one. not dying during a mission is a miracle. their lifespan is maybe 8 minutes. theyâre dead. they get replaced like bullets in a chamber and they die deaths far less meaningful than an antâs. theyâre dead. the war isnât ever going to be over. theyâre dead. theyâre gone. for nothing.
yeah being aro is cool. i donât have to memorize dates for anything
people who have so much hate in their hearts are incredible. i wish i had that much energy. do you know how many dishes i could do if i had that much energy to spare

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itâs always âshut the fuck up im drivingâ and never âthank you finch for naming species of birds that we passâ or âiâm so glad to be learning about birdsâ or âitâs so cool that you know that those are vultures and not buzzards, despite the locals calling them buzzardsâ
i donât want ai to do my math for me i donât want ai to make up problems for me to practice when my book is a hands reach away i donât want ai to write my essays i donât want ai to check my grammar i donât want ai to run my experiments i donât want ai to think my theories i donât want ai to tell me history i donât want ai to remember my stories i donât want ai to write my plays i donât want ai to speak my dialogue i donât want ai to draw my artwork i donât want ai to paint my canvases i donât want ai to write my songs i donât want ai to imitate my instruments i donât want ai to engineer my bridges i donât want ai to make my water valves i donât want ai to bind my books i donât want ai to weave my tapestries i donât want ai to study the wildlife i donât want ai to track my work i donât want ai to write my recipes i donât want ai to review my resume i donât want ai to kill my friends i donât want ai to kill strangers and i donât want ai to live my life
living weapon lie in bloodstained dirt. theyâd been on the front line for days, but now the line advances without them. they did their job.Â
their mind drifts in and out of tangibility. thereâs a dull pain in their side that they elect to ignore. they shouldnât react to pain. handler would be disappointed, especially after all that conditioning.Â
living weapon focuses on a figure coming into their line of sight. the figure crouches down. handler. handler looks⌠conflicted, almost. handler is always so self-assuredâŚ
living weapon should stand. they begin to gather their strength to do so when handler places a hand on their chest. handlerâs hand is trembling.
âhey,â handler says. handlerâs voice is directed to living weapon, but handlerâs focus is torn between them and the moved battlefield. âstatus?â
âdowned,â living weapon answers automatically. their voice is more strained than they expected it to be. âhit sustained to the chest.â
handler gives living weapon a glance-over to confirm that. handler has no reason to ask what can be so easily observed.Â
âyeah,â handler mutters. living weapon watches handler stand up again, and they find themself unable to clearly see their handlerâs face.Â
silence stretches, bar for the sounds of battle some half-kilometer away. handler gazes down at living weapon, who stares right back.Â
handler should walk away. that much is obvious. handler is needed elsewhere, somewhere that isnât watching living weapon bleed out in the dirt. handler doesnât know enough first aid for this. handler couldnât convince the medics to save living weapon.Â
handler certainly doesnât know how to make death more comfortable. not when living weapon only seems confused.Â
âdid i do good?â
the question comes as handler begins to consider leaving living weapon where they lie. handler returns their attention to living weapon. âwhat?â
âdid i do good today?â living weapon asks again. handler can hear the struggle for breath. their eyes, once so sharp, are glassy.Â
handlerâs mind blanks. handler should not answer that question. at least, handler doesnât want to. but itâs handlerâs job. handler issues praise. handler gives feedback. and handler is not doing well for that job right now.Â
âyes,â handler says. indulging in a little lie here, will that truly hurt? handlerâs never lied to living weapon, but now it feels inconsequential. the blood painting the grass makes it hard to say anything to the contrary. âyou did great, living weapon.â