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
fixed a problem at work that i vaguely saw a manager fix once and i did it faster which means that i get to take his skin i get to take his skin i get to take his skin i get to take his skin i get to take his skin i get to take his skin
Terry Jones was the only person I ever interviewed as a young journalist who got me drunk. I was 23. He asked what I’d like to drink when I arrived and I said “coffee”. He though about that for a moment and decided I would prefer Chablis, and a few moments later he produced a bottle of Chablis twice the size of a normal wine bottle and then proceeded to pour it into both of us while I interviewed him.
The interview was enormously fun (Terry was in the process of writing Labyrinth at the time.) After the interview the photographer and I went out for a pizza and I remember heading to the toilets and then lying on the floor while the room spun around, holding on to the floor because otherwise I might fall off.
Photo taken of me during the photos after the interview concluded…
