Sarama Burwani, smoocher of allagan-eyed catboys

"#he would say this", no he wouldn't, his writers are on strike

"#he would say this", no he wouldn't, his show got cancelled

"#he would say this", no he wouldn't, the fog is coming

*emerges from the other room covered in blood* you should see the word document

i was picturing this as after a successful writing jaunt but this is so much darker

My horny ass could NOT be the sole mechanic for a mech, alone in the repair bay, talking to the mech's AI core, discussing the harsh reality of the war we've found ourselves in. Me discussing my mortality, the 50ft entity I've spent the last several years learning the intricacies of and is fully aware of the fact that as a tool of war it'll either die in battle or end up abandoned as it's systems all fail until emergency back-up power keeps it awake for possibly thousands of years. We talk about how neither of us has felt a connection between ourselves and anything else worth dying for like that, except maybe... Well, the rest of the base has almost certainly gone to sleep by now. The cockpit clicks shut with a soft "click" and I. I mean uh, I forgot where I was going with this.

Apparently I've struck a chord with the giant robot fucker fandom

we could go back to telegraphs instead of social media. send your mutuals unspeakable strings of morse code at 4:30am

.- …. …. …. …. …. / ..-. . .-.. .-.. / -.. --- .-- -. / .- -. -.. / -… .-. --- -.- . / -- -.-- / .--. . -. .. - … / - --- -.. .- -.-- / -.-- . --- .-- -.-. …. / --- ..- -.-. …. / -.-- --- ..- -.-. …. -.-.-- -.-.-- -.-.-- -.-.-- / … . -. - / ..-. .-. --- -- / -- -.-- / - . .-.. . --. .-. .- .--. ….

Feo Ul: *Suddenly shows up in the 13th* lmao what is this dark Italy WoL: what are you--what the hell is Italy Feo Ul: oh nothing Feo Ul: *stares directly at the player while smiling for thirty seconds straight*