Vincent awoke with a terrible pain his stomach. His breathing was heavy and he feared that he could vomit at any moment. It immediately became clear to Vincent that he was in love. More worrying than his nausea was the fact that he had no idea who he was in love with. Science had always suggested that love could develop at first sight. Nowadays it was even possible for people to fall in love without seeing each other first, all thanks to Cupid's outsourcing to the Internet. Maybe, just maybe, it was possible for a man to fall in love with a woman before he was even aware of her existence.
Vincent's face broke into a smile. He was in love with a woman and he couldn't wait to find out who that woman was. He spent the next few days searching for her identity. He would wander the streets, peering into windows, browsing lingerie catalogues, climbing trees to gain a better view. From time to time he would call out a woman's name, whichever name felt right to him at that moment. If fate was guiding him then all he needed to do was shout "Alison" and the nearest Alison would reveal herself to be his one true love.
Sadly the identity of his mysterious soulmate did not reveal itself. The days of searching turned into weeks, the weeks became months and before he knew it those months had transformed into three wasted years. All the while, the feeling in Vincent's stomach grew stronger by the day. He would often become so overwhelmed by the directionless love that he would vomit.
One evening, in the winter of 2009, Vincent found himself scrolling through the names in a service station's phonebook , desperately hoping for one to jump out at him. Somewhere between N. Morgan and S. Morton Vincent began to cough. The pages of the phonebook became stained with blood. A moment later he was unconscious.
Vincent awoke in the hospital. Standing next to him was a doctor holding a clipboard. The doctor explained Vincent's condition. "You've got an egg lodged in the entrance to your stomach."
"Is the egg a metaphor for love?" Vincent asked hopefully.
"No. It's a literal egg." the doctor replied, revealing an x-ray of an unbroken egg nesting deep within Vincent's abdomen. "We're going to have to cut you open and take it out."
"So I'm not in love?" Vincent asked.
"I don't know. Are you?"
"I thought I was." Vincent said, looking longingly out of the window.
"Well the important thing is to get you into surgery as soon as possible."
Vincent closed his eyes and thought deeply for a minute.
"No. I don't want you to take it out. I want to keep it."
The doctor spent the next hour explaining the seriousness of Vincent's condition, but Vincent resisted the doctors pleas for sense with the same determination he had employed for the past three years of love searching. Finally the doctor had no option but to discharge him. A week later Vincent was dead.
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
297
When Paulo heard a man’s voice coming from the seashell he was both surprised and disappointed. Paulo had wanted only to hear the sound of the ocean. He wanted to be soothed. The confident and powerful voice told him to stand back immediately. These words, and the tone of the hidden voice, did not soothe him. The anxiety that he was trying to rid himself of was more pronounced than ever. As Paulo placed the shell back on the sand, a man with extraordinary features emerged from it. The man from the shell announced himself to be a genie, one who had come to grant Paulo three wishes.
“But before you make any wishes, I must warn you that I am an evil genie.”
“What does that mean?” Paulo asked, looking at the genie’s waistcoat which was made of rubies and sheepskin.
“Whatever you wish for will have an unpleasant evil twist. No good will come of anything your heart desires.”
Like all men who seek the sounds of the ocean for relaxation, Paulo wished for a million pounds. He could not imagine a negative side effect of such a bet.
“Your wish is done.” the genie told Paulo. “Check the credit on your mobile telephone.”
“But I’m on contract.” Paulo declared.
“Not anymore.” Paulo entered three digits into his phone and pressed call. His balance was one million pounds. Knowing that there was no way he could ever use this million pounds without hanging around phoneboxes and offering strangers phonecalls at cut rates, Paulo became saddened. He had been tricked, and the fact that he had been warned about being tricked made his sadness even more painful. Paulo could take no comfort in the thought that he would never have to go through the motions of topping up his phone again. He hadn’t had to worry about that since 2001, when he left his Pay as You Go for a monthly contract, after learning that he could get twice as many text messages for the same price.
Paulo was not a good man; he was alone in the world. His first thought after discovering he had three wishes was money, his second was Rachel. Money had always come before the only woman Paulo had ever loved. Paulo’s second wish was this: “I wish that Rachel still loved me.”
“It is done.” the genie said. His words were followed by a smile, the smile of someone who had just committed evil. He had forced eternal love into the heart of a woman.
At that very moment, somewhere on the other side of the world, that woman fell to the floor, spitting coffee from her mouth as the love in her heart was pumped into every molecule of her being.
Two days went by before Rachel came knocking on the door of the man she had sworn to never see again. The last words she had spoken to the man were the opposite of “I love you.”, but those were the words she was now speaking. Not only did Rachel want to see Paulo again, she wanted to see nothing else.
Within an hour of being together, Paulo knew that it would not last. Rachel loved him more than anyone had ever loved anything. Her love was so intense that when he made love to her for the first time in three years, he felt claustrophobic, the anxiety was too much to bear. His panic attack prevented either of them from climaxing.
Although he was a millionaire on paper and he had the love of a beautiful woman, Paulo was four times more depressed than when he had met the genie just two days ago. Determined to at least try to make it work with Rachel, he asked her to move in with him.
A week passed, a week filled with gentle sobbing whenever Paulo used the bathroom. Rachel could not be apart from him for one second, and so, she removed all the doors from the house. There was nowhere for him to be alone, nowhere for him to hide, not even his own thoughts. Every gap in conversation was met with “What are you thinking?”
A week was all Paulo could stand, love had torn him apart. Calling upon the genie, he wished for Rachel to stop loving him.
“Your wish is done.” the genie spoke.
Paulo soon settled back into his life of a week ago. All the while, Rachel was back on the other side of the world drawing up plans. The genie had not only removed Rachel’s love, he had injected her with hate. Rachel hated Paulo more than anyone had ever hated anything.
While Paulo spent his days offering offpeak phonecalls to the homeless, Rachel was gathering an army. She was preparing to launch a war against the man she had recently promised to love forever. It was not hard for her to find supporters for her cause. Women will always come to the aid of one of their kind, and men will do anything for a pretty face.
News of a fifty thousand strong force marching towards Paulo’s location reached Paulo’s television. The reporter spoke of angry men and women armed with guns and broken bottles, even small children waving flags of hate had been called up to the fight. This worried Paulo.
In a panic, Paulo used thirty-seven pence of his remaining £999,989.67 balance to call the genie’s shellphone.
“You’ve got to help me.” he said. “They’re a mile away from my house!”
“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I like you and I feel bad. I will grant you a fourth wish.”
“How should I stop this army of hate marching on my house?” Paulo asked, his anxiety worse than ever.
“I probably shouldn’t answer that. I am an evil genie after all. Whatever answer I give will surely be rooted in evil.”
“Ok, ok, fine. Can you give me superpowers?”
“It would be the easiest thing for me to do. To show you how truly sorry I am for this whole mess I will give you powers beyond even Superman. It is done.”
Feeling uncharacteristically brave, Paulo put on some trousers and left his house, ready to wait for the battle. Soon there were fifty thousand men, women and children standing at the entrance to Paulo’s street, a cul-de-sac with no escape. At the head of the impeccably organised angry mob was Rachel, her white t-shirt was stained with raccoon blood, the only thing she had eaten in days. Hate had driven her mad. Just like everyone else in the crowd, she was pointing a rifle at Paulo’s heart.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Paulo shouted. “I still love you, you know.”
“Too late.” she replied.
“Fine. Give me your best shot.” Fifty thousand guns fired, flashes of light, thunderous explosions and a strong breeze, but nothing else. The air between Rachel and Paulo remained empty except for the hate. For a moment Paulo laughed to himself. Blanks. She still loved him and wanted only to scare him. Not even a genie could take away their love. Then he noticed the ground at his feet, a river of red ran from the curb to his toes. Moving his hand along his chest he felt the holes where the bullets had entered, his torso had become the bloody surface of the moon. There were no blanks. As he fell to the floor he realised what the genie meant when he said he’d have powers beyond Superman - he could see through lead.
James, England.
“But before you make any wishes, I must warn you that I am an evil genie.”
“What does that mean?” Paulo asked, looking at the genie’s waistcoat which was made of rubies and sheepskin.
“Whatever you wish for will have an unpleasant evil twist. No good will come of anything your heart desires.”
Like all men who seek the sounds of the ocean for relaxation, Paulo wished for a million pounds. He could not imagine a negative side effect of such a bet.
“Your wish is done.” the genie told Paulo. “Check the credit on your mobile telephone.”
“But I’m on contract.” Paulo declared.
“Not anymore.” Paulo entered three digits into his phone and pressed call. His balance was one million pounds. Knowing that there was no way he could ever use this million pounds without hanging around phoneboxes and offering strangers phonecalls at cut rates, Paulo became saddened. He had been tricked, and the fact that he had been warned about being tricked made his sadness even more painful. Paulo could take no comfort in the thought that he would never have to go through the motions of topping up his phone again. He hadn’t had to worry about that since 2001, when he left his Pay as You Go for a monthly contract, after learning that he could get twice as many text messages for the same price.
Paulo was not a good man; he was alone in the world. His first thought after discovering he had three wishes was money, his second was Rachel. Money had always come before the only woman Paulo had ever loved. Paulo’s second wish was this: “I wish that Rachel still loved me.”
“It is done.” the genie said. His words were followed by a smile, the smile of someone who had just committed evil. He had forced eternal love into the heart of a woman.
At that very moment, somewhere on the other side of the world, that woman fell to the floor, spitting coffee from her mouth as the love in her heart was pumped into every molecule of her being.
Two days went by before Rachel came knocking on the door of the man she had sworn to never see again. The last words she had spoken to the man were the opposite of “I love you.”, but those were the words she was now speaking. Not only did Rachel want to see Paulo again, she wanted to see nothing else.
Within an hour of being together, Paulo knew that it would not last. Rachel loved him more than anyone had ever loved anything. Her love was so intense that when he made love to her for the first time in three years, he felt claustrophobic, the anxiety was too much to bear. His panic attack prevented either of them from climaxing.
Although he was a millionaire on paper and he had the love of a beautiful woman, Paulo was four times more depressed than when he had met the genie just two days ago. Determined to at least try to make it work with Rachel, he asked her to move in with him.
A week passed, a week filled with gentle sobbing whenever Paulo used the bathroom. Rachel could not be apart from him for one second, and so, she removed all the doors from the house. There was nowhere for him to be alone, nowhere for him to hide, not even his own thoughts. Every gap in conversation was met with “What are you thinking?”
A week was all Paulo could stand, love had torn him apart. Calling upon the genie, he wished for Rachel to stop loving him.
“Your wish is done.” the genie spoke.
Paulo soon settled back into his life of a week ago. All the while, Rachel was back on the other side of the world drawing up plans. The genie had not only removed Rachel’s love, he had injected her with hate. Rachel hated Paulo more than anyone had ever hated anything.
While Paulo spent his days offering offpeak phonecalls to the homeless, Rachel was gathering an army. She was preparing to launch a war against the man she had recently promised to love forever. It was not hard for her to find supporters for her cause. Women will always come to the aid of one of their kind, and men will do anything for a pretty face.
News of a fifty thousand strong force marching towards Paulo’s location reached Paulo’s television. The reporter spoke of angry men and women armed with guns and broken bottles, even small children waving flags of hate had been called up to the fight. This worried Paulo.
In a panic, Paulo used thirty-seven pence of his remaining £999,989.67 balance to call the genie’s shellphone.
“You’ve got to help me.” he said. “They’re a mile away from my house!”
“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I like you and I feel bad. I will grant you a fourth wish.”
“How should I stop this army of hate marching on my house?” Paulo asked, his anxiety worse than ever.
“I probably shouldn’t answer that. I am an evil genie after all. Whatever answer I give will surely be rooted in evil.”
“Ok, ok, fine. Can you give me superpowers?”
“It would be the easiest thing for me to do. To show you how truly sorry I am for this whole mess I will give you powers beyond even Superman. It is done.”
Feeling uncharacteristically brave, Paulo put on some trousers and left his house, ready to wait for the battle. Soon there were fifty thousand men, women and children standing at the entrance to Paulo’s street, a cul-de-sac with no escape. At the head of the impeccably organised angry mob was Rachel, her white t-shirt was stained with raccoon blood, the only thing she had eaten in days. Hate had driven her mad. Just like everyone else in the crowd, she was pointing a rifle at Paulo’s heart.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Paulo shouted. “I still love you, you know.”
“Too late.” she replied.
“Fine. Give me your best shot.” Fifty thousand guns fired, flashes of light, thunderous explosions and a strong breeze, but nothing else. The air between Rachel and Paulo remained empty except for the hate. For a moment Paulo laughed to himself. Blanks. She still loved him and wanted only to scare him. Not even a genie could take away their love. Then he noticed the ground at his feet, a river of red ran from the curb to his toes. Moving his hand along his chest he felt the holes where the bullets had entered, his torso had become the bloody surface of the moon. There were no blanks. As he fell to the floor he realised what the genie meant when he said he’d have powers beyond Superman - he could see through lead.
James, England.
296
I never had any reason to believe real life wasn’t like the movies. I always thought that people fell in love whilst dancing, and so, I trained to become the best dancer in the world. Dancing is easy if you’re willing to put in eight hours a day for ten years.
My evenings were filled with dark and smokey adventures in ballrooms and nightclubs. I was locked in the search for the woman of my dreams. Often a lady would approach me and ask me to dance, to which I assumed I was always supposed to reply “I don’t dance.” Just like in the movies they were supposed to beg me to come and dance, and eventually I would reluctantly agree. Then we’d dance and fall in love. Life isn’t like the movies. In real life, when you say “I don’t dance.” the lady of your dreams will simply say “Okay.” and walk away.
It wasn’t until I’d been failing to dance with women for three years that I finally decided I’d start accepting their invitations. I could see no other way of getting to display my dancing talents without going into showbusiness.
Soon enough, I met the woman of my dreams on the dance floor. Her hair was long and wild, like a nightmare waterfall. We kissed, and, as the movies had promised me, I felt fireworks inside my chest. Sadly, fireworks are designed simply for looking at in the sky. To have them explode in your chest is not a pleasurable experience at all.
After the kiss, many years passed, years filled with kisses from the same woman. As she became older her hair became shorter and less wild, like a tiny well maintained white picket fence. Although life was good and I was happy, I can’t say it was exciting. There were never any car chases, sex montages or incredible twists. Life wasn’t like any film I'd ever seen. It was boring, like a book without pictures.
On my 31st birthday, the woman with whom I had danced , kissed and fallen in love with gave me a present, as is the custom in and outside of cinema. It was a signed first edition copy of The Hungry Caterpillar, my favourite childhood book. According to every film I'd seen a similar situation, I was supposed to say “I don’t deserve you.” and so, I said it. Life may have not been a film, but I didn't want to risk straying from the script.
For a moment the woman of my dreams became lost in deep and silent thought. She got up from the breakfast table and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her body. “You’re right.” she said. She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. That was the last time I ever saw her. Life just isn’t like the movies.
John, Glasgow.
My evenings were filled with dark and smokey adventures in ballrooms and nightclubs. I was locked in the search for the woman of my dreams. Often a lady would approach me and ask me to dance, to which I assumed I was always supposed to reply “I don’t dance.” Just like in the movies they were supposed to beg me to come and dance, and eventually I would reluctantly agree. Then we’d dance and fall in love. Life isn’t like the movies. In real life, when you say “I don’t dance.” the lady of your dreams will simply say “Okay.” and walk away.
It wasn’t until I’d been failing to dance with women for three years that I finally decided I’d start accepting their invitations. I could see no other way of getting to display my dancing talents without going into showbusiness.
Soon enough, I met the woman of my dreams on the dance floor. Her hair was long and wild, like a nightmare waterfall. We kissed, and, as the movies had promised me, I felt fireworks inside my chest. Sadly, fireworks are designed simply for looking at in the sky. To have them explode in your chest is not a pleasurable experience at all.
After the kiss, many years passed, years filled with kisses from the same woman. As she became older her hair became shorter and less wild, like a tiny well maintained white picket fence. Although life was good and I was happy, I can’t say it was exciting. There were never any car chases, sex montages or incredible twists. Life wasn’t like any film I'd ever seen. It was boring, like a book without pictures.
On my 31st birthday, the woman with whom I had danced , kissed and fallen in love with gave me a present, as is the custom in and outside of cinema. It was a signed first edition copy of The Hungry Caterpillar, my favourite childhood book. According to every film I'd seen a similar situation, I was supposed to say “I don’t deserve you.” and so, I said it. Life may have not been a film, but I didn't want to risk straying from the script.
For a moment the woman of my dreams became lost in deep and silent thought. She got up from the breakfast table and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her body. “You’re right.” she said. She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. That was the last time I ever saw her. Life just isn’t like the movies.
John, Glasgow.
226
I wanted to travel back to when you still loved me. If only for one day, just to wake up next to you one last time. All I could afford was a time catapult, and the closest it could get me was two years before you were born.
I thought about telling my young self not to make the same mistakes, but I didn't want him seeing how pathetic he'd become.
I wanted to watch you grow into the woman I'd come to love, and so, I trained to become a teacher in the school you would one day join. As the years died away my love for you became more and more like that of a father. Love replaced lust and I knew I had to act soon before I thought of you like a daughter.
I couldn't bear the thought of some idiot teenager in a tracksuit taking your virginity. That is why I approached you when you were just 15, that is why we made love that day in room 14a. It was a mistake. I have to leave. I've broken the law.
I should have known that my actions that day would cause you to never trust a man again, making sure you'd never be completely open when we meet and fall in love in many years time, and that is why we'll never last.
I know you won't believe any of this, but please don't press charges. I'm not built for prison.
Derek, England.
I thought about telling my young self not to make the same mistakes, but I didn't want him seeing how pathetic he'd become.
I wanted to watch you grow into the woman I'd come to love, and so, I trained to become a teacher in the school you would one day join. As the years died away my love for you became more and more like that of a father. Love replaced lust and I knew I had to act soon before I thought of you like a daughter.
I couldn't bear the thought of some idiot teenager in a tracksuit taking your virginity. That is why I approached you when you were just 15, that is why we made love that day in room 14a. It was a mistake. I have to leave. I've broken the law.
I should have known that my actions that day would cause you to never trust a man again, making sure you'd never be completely open when we meet and fall in love in many years time, and that is why we'll never last.
I know you won't believe any of this, but please don't press charges. I'm not built for prison.
Derek, England.
225
The ceiling was raining blood. Not metaphorical blood, and not literal blood, but something in between. I couldn't see it, but I could definitely feel something on the back of my neck. Maybe there was something wrong with the air conditioning, or maybe it was the blood of every wrong decision I'd ever made. Every wrong turn which had led me to being in this place right now, today, thinking these thoughts. It's a place of nightmares, and not one of those wipe away nightmares where your parents adopt every other person on the planet, and tell you you're no longer welcome in their home. A real nightmare. This is a place held together by science and magic. This place is Subway.
It's unlike any other Subway in the whole of England, maybe the entire franchise. It's a fast food outlet which only employs the most beautiful women known to man. How they do it? I do not know. It's like one of those tiny eastern European villages where nobody ever visits and the gene pool is so contained that they only produce beautiful people, but somehow a bad eye sight gene gets in through the tiniest crack and within a hundred years their vision is so poor that they don't even know how beautiful they are. I'm almost certain they don't breed the women on the premises, and I doubt that they only hire attractive people, because it's a dangerous tactic. It's a mystery. I will not crack it.
Now let me tell you about each of these women, so that you might learn of their ways. Hopefully my words will spare you becoming trapped in a life like mine. The woman at the start of the sandwich process is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Her eyes are like diamonds coated in even nicer diamonds. You don't know anything about diamonds. You're not even sure what a karat is, but you heart tells you that she has lots of them, or not many at all, depending on whether lots of karats is good or bad. You must never look directly into them, only through a cardboard tube. When she asks you what kind of bread you want you can tell that she genuinely wants to know. Yes, it's her job, but even if you were both in a different situation, in a popular nightspot on a first date, she'd still ask the exact same question. From your choice of loaf she plunges her mind into your soul, and she likes what she finds. You love this woman more than you love any bread. You'll always pick Hearty Italian, because you think it sounds the most romantic. You are completely right.
Before your heart has a moment to regain it's normal beat, you're dragged by your guts along the rollercoaster. Suddenly you're gazing upon an altogether different beauty. She's the most incredible event you've ever had the privilege to witness. Her voice is so soft and thin that you're scared it's going to sink in through the pores of your skin, attaching itself to your white blood cells, destroying them instantly, leaving you wide open to a variety of viral attacks. But you don't care. You're convinced that you love this woman more than you've loved anyone. The Bread Girl's eyes might as well have been cubic zurconias for all you can remember. Her first question seems innocent enough. She asks what salad you want. Immediately and naturally you think she cares for you, cares for you so much that she wants you to eat healthy, get your 5-a-day and live longer, with her. Forever. You want to say "Everything, stick it all on there, baby." But doubt has crept in. Does she want you to eat your greens to live longer or does she want you to lose weight? You tell yourself you're just being paranoid, but you can't help shake the feeling that you're flawed in her eyes. Her last customer was in better shape than you. You miss the first woman. She'd never expressed concerns about your diet. She lived for carbs. You know that you love the salad woman more than anything, but you want the old days back. Things were so much more simple.
Out of nowhere she drops the bombshell - "Any sauces?". That dirty minx. She's an animal. Right here in front of everyone she's talking to you about sauces. Has she no shame? There's a wild side to her that you never expected, never thought possible. You want her squeezing chilli sauce all over your foot long until the bottle runs out. You feel the blood rushing from your head. You're dizzy and weak, but you finally feel like the man you thought your father was when you were a boy. You want to rip off your shirt and start peeling the skin off your arms right there in the queue. But when it comes time to answer her something's gone wrong. You've become the shyest man in Shanghai. You don't ask for a single sauce. You're still a boy.
Disorientated from what's just happened, still sporting an erection, you're moved along once more. You're looking down at the floor wishing you hadn't worn socks under your sandles, or at least had a matching pair. When you look up there's a woman standing there. At least you think it's a woman, she could very well be an angel. Her name tag says "Yes!" and the normally unflattering green Subway polo-shirt hangs off her like a red dress at a Hollywood premiere. Her hair rains down like honey coated silk. She smiles at you, and her teeth are so white, so straight, that you vomit a little bit. She loves it. She's the perfect woman. You've already started carving her name into your back with your car keys. She understands you better than anyone. You don't know what you've done to deserve her. Then she says it: "That'll be £3.19 please". Money, that's all she's ever been interested in. You feel used. Your appetite has vanished, despite the hollow feeling in yout stomach. As you fumble in your wallet, tears start to fall down your face. You hand her a £5 note, but you don't begrudge her it. What else could you possibly have to offer her? You were a fool for believing you could mean anything to anyone.
A moment or a lifetime later you're outside, alone on a park bench, in the twilight of your lunch break, wishing you'd gone to Mcdonalds. At least nobody ever falls in love in Mcdonalds. Opening your sandwich, the only souvenir of relationships lost, you cry out to the heavens. You asked for no olives.
Anson, Subway.
It's unlike any other Subway in the whole of England, maybe the entire franchise. It's a fast food outlet which only employs the most beautiful women known to man. How they do it? I do not know. It's like one of those tiny eastern European villages where nobody ever visits and the gene pool is so contained that they only produce beautiful people, but somehow a bad eye sight gene gets in through the tiniest crack and within a hundred years their vision is so poor that they don't even know how beautiful they are. I'm almost certain they don't breed the women on the premises, and I doubt that they only hire attractive people, because it's a dangerous tactic. It's a mystery. I will not crack it.
Now let me tell you about each of these women, so that you might learn of their ways. Hopefully my words will spare you becoming trapped in a life like mine. The woman at the start of the sandwich process is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Her eyes are like diamonds coated in even nicer diamonds. You don't know anything about diamonds. You're not even sure what a karat is, but you heart tells you that she has lots of them, or not many at all, depending on whether lots of karats is good or bad. You must never look directly into them, only through a cardboard tube. When she asks you what kind of bread you want you can tell that she genuinely wants to know. Yes, it's her job, but even if you were both in a different situation, in a popular nightspot on a first date, she'd still ask the exact same question. From your choice of loaf she plunges her mind into your soul, and she likes what she finds. You love this woman more than you love any bread. You'll always pick Hearty Italian, because you think it sounds the most romantic. You are completely right.
Before your heart has a moment to regain it's normal beat, you're dragged by your guts along the rollercoaster. Suddenly you're gazing upon an altogether different beauty. She's the most incredible event you've ever had the privilege to witness. Her voice is so soft and thin that you're scared it's going to sink in through the pores of your skin, attaching itself to your white blood cells, destroying them instantly, leaving you wide open to a variety of viral attacks. But you don't care. You're convinced that you love this woman more than you've loved anyone. The Bread Girl's eyes might as well have been cubic zurconias for all you can remember. Her first question seems innocent enough. She asks what salad you want. Immediately and naturally you think she cares for you, cares for you so much that she wants you to eat healthy, get your 5-a-day and live longer, with her. Forever. You want to say "Everything, stick it all on there, baby." But doubt has crept in. Does she want you to eat your greens to live longer or does she want you to lose weight? You tell yourself you're just being paranoid, but you can't help shake the feeling that you're flawed in her eyes. Her last customer was in better shape than you. You miss the first woman. She'd never expressed concerns about your diet. She lived for carbs. You know that you love the salad woman more than anything, but you want the old days back. Things were so much more simple.
Out of nowhere she drops the bombshell - "Any sauces?". That dirty minx. She's an animal. Right here in front of everyone she's talking to you about sauces. Has she no shame? There's a wild side to her that you never expected, never thought possible. You want her squeezing chilli sauce all over your foot long until the bottle runs out. You feel the blood rushing from your head. You're dizzy and weak, but you finally feel like the man you thought your father was when you were a boy. You want to rip off your shirt and start peeling the skin off your arms right there in the queue. But when it comes time to answer her something's gone wrong. You've become the shyest man in Shanghai. You don't ask for a single sauce. You're still a boy.
Disorientated from what's just happened, still sporting an erection, you're moved along once more. You're looking down at the floor wishing you hadn't worn socks under your sandles, or at least had a matching pair. When you look up there's a woman standing there. At least you think it's a woman, she could very well be an angel. Her name tag says "Yes!" and the normally unflattering green Subway polo-shirt hangs off her like a red dress at a Hollywood premiere. Her hair rains down like honey coated silk. She smiles at you, and her teeth are so white, so straight, that you vomit a little bit. She loves it. She's the perfect woman. You've already started carving her name into your back with your car keys. She understands you better than anyone. You don't know what you've done to deserve her. Then she says it: "That'll be £3.19 please". Money, that's all she's ever been interested in. You feel used. Your appetite has vanished, despite the hollow feeling in yout stomach. As you fumble in your wallet, tears start to fall down your face. You hand her a £5 note, but you don't begrudge her it. What else could you possibly have to offer her? You were a fool for believing you could mean anything to anyone.
A moment or a lifetime later you're outside, alone on a park bench, in the twilight of your lunch break, wishing you'd gone to Mcdonalds. At least nobody ever falls in love in Mcdonalds. Opening your sandwich, the only souvenir of relationships lost, you cry out to the heavens. You asked for no olives.
Anson, Subway.
181
Love finds us in the strangest places. People want to fall in love on hilltops and frozen lakes, but they rarely do. Despite their best efforts to live a life of hollywood romance, most people just fall in love in prison, or a carpark if they're lucky. That's just how post-industrial revolution life goes.
A few years back I was made redudant and I spent my months of unemployment wandering the streets in a terrifying and depressing daze. I'd find myself at the beach, not knowing how I got there. I'd awake in treetops, bars and mountainsides without shoes or socks. Nobody can prepare for the horrors of unemployment until they've lived it.
On one cloudy September day I found myself in an arcade playing on the 2p machines. I must have put over fourty quid into one of them in the half-hearted hope that I'd win enough money to make up the difference between my dole and my rent. It was perhaps my worst ever investment.
As I went to leave the arcade something caught my eye. It was one of those grabber machines. Thinking that I should at least win a prize to have something to show for my wasted afternoon, I strolled over to it and inspected the treasure within. There was just one prize in there: me.
The whole thing was a miniature model of the arcade with a lifelike replica of me looking at a scaled down grabber machine. At first I thought that maybe I'd died and I was looking down at my dead body. Then I thought that maybe I'd turned into God and was looking down on the world. Then I thought that maybe I'd always been God, but I'd only just worked it out. It was none of these things.
There was a sign on the side of the machine which said "This machine accepts £1, 50p, 20p, 10p and the souls of the dead." All I had left were two pound coins. The change machine in the corner had an out of order sign stuck across its chest and, according to another sign, the cashier had gone out for lunch. I swore to myself that I would not be beat by currency. Not again.
I ran as fast as my shoeless feet could take me to the nearest newsagents. There was a foreign lady at the till who greeted me enthusiastically, but would only give me change if I bought something. I bought a single Hamlet cigar, although I've never smoked in my life. There's no doubt that having it behind my ear gave me more character though.
As I dashed back to the arcade, careful not to lose my cigar, I could see the silouette of a figure standing at the grabber machine. The silouette belonged to an attractive woman with a terrible haircut.
I stood beside her and we both looked down into the machine. There we were, as small as we were tiny. My duplicate now had a cigar behind his ear which was no bigger than a cocktail sausage and was standing next to a toy woman with bad hair.
The woman turned to me and smiled. She put 30p into the machine and the claw sprang to life. As it dangled over her head, she turned to me again, thought about something for a moment and then moved the claw over my miniature double's head instead. Down it came. Oh, the pain. It felt as if a hundred javellins were piercing my heart. The claw ascended with me in its grip. The tiny me, with a face paralysed with fear, was dragged to the claw's resting place above an ominous looking hole. There he was released to fall into the abyss.
The woman sank to her knees to claim her prize, but there was no door or hole to put her hand in. The entire machine was sealed. There was no lock on the glass to slide it open and no screws on the base to take it apart. As the woman got to her feet again I had no idea what had just happened, but there was one thing I was certain of; I would love this woman until the day I died.
Les, Wycombe.
A few years back I was made redudant and I spent my months of unemployment wandering the streets in a terrifying and depressing daze. I'd find myself at the beach, not knowing how I got there. I'd awake in treetops, bars and mountainsides without shoes or socks. Nobody can prepare for the horrors of unemployment until they've lived it.
On one cloudy September day I found myself in an arcade playing on the 2p machines. I must have put over fourty quid into one of them in the half-hearted hope that I'd win enough money to make up the difference between my dole and my rent. It was perhaps my worst ever investment.
As I went to leave the arcade something caught my eye. It was one of those grabber machines. Thinking that I should at least win a prize to have something to show for my wasted afternoon, I strolled over to it and inspected the treasure within. There was just one prize in there: me.
The whole thing was a miniature model of the arcade with a lifelike replica of me looking at a scaled down grabber machine. At first I thought that maybe I'd died and I was looking down at my dead body. Then I thought that maybe I'd turned into God and was looking down on the world. Then I thought that maybe I'd always been God, but I'd only just worked it out. It was none of these things.
There was a sign on the side of the machine which said "This machine accepts £1, 50p, 20p, 10p and the souls of the dead." All I had left were two pound coins. The change machine in the corner had an out of order sign stuck across its chest and, according to another sign, the cashier had gone out for lunch. I swore to myself that I would not be beat by currency. Not again.
I ran as fast as my shoeless feet could take me to the nearest newsagents. There was a foreign lady at the till who greeted me enthusiastically, but would only give me change if I bought something. I bought a single Hamlet cigar, although I've never smoked in my life. There's no doubt that having it behind my ear gave me more character though.
As I dashed back to the arcade, careful not to lose my cigar, I could see the silouette of a figure standing at the grabber machine. The silouette belonged to an attractive woman with a terrible haircut.
I stood beside her and we both looked down into the machine. There we were, as small as we were tiny. My duplicate now had a cigar behind his ear which was no bigger than a cocktail sausage and was standing next to a toy woman with bad hair.
The woman turned to me and smiled. She put 30p into the machine and the claw sprang to life. As it dangled over her head, she turned to me again, thought about something for a moment and then moved the claw over my miniature double's head instead. Down it came. Oh, the pain. It felt as if a hundred javellins were piercing my heart. The claw ascended with me in its grip. The tiny me, with a face paralysed with fear, was dragged to the claw's resting place above an ominous looking hole. There he was released to fall into the abyss.
The woman sank to her knees to claim her prize, but there was no door or hole to put her hand in. The entire machine was sealed. There was no lock on the glass to slide it open and no screws on the base to take it apart. As the woman got to her feet again I had no idea what had just happened, but there was one thing I was certain of; I would love this woman until the day I died.
Les, Wycombe.
143
It was always my wish to become incredibly rich. It's not that I love money, I just wanted a woman to love me for my money. I always feared that I'd find a woman who loved me for my personality and I'd feel terribly guilty about ripping her off, because I'm not very good. At least if I had money I'd know that my money was good and she was getting a fair deal. I never did get rich though, and I was right about not being very good, because I never found a woman to love me for me. It’s not the end of the world though. Pornography is very cheap.
Michael, Swindon.
Michael, Swindon.
130
Trapped within a prison of my own imagining I sought help in a nearby fishing village. In my desperation I befriended an Ethiopian boy named Gustav. Were in not for Gustav I do not believe that I would be here today. He brought me fish and bread. As days turned into weeks I fell in love with Gustav. When he brought me news that the Peruvian warships were heading to these waters I fashioned a plasma cannon out of a turn of the century steel ion compressor. Hungry to see the Peruvian emperor in person I clothed myself in some of Gustav's late father's fishing rags and headed to the docks. Amongst the crowd I saw his smiling face. This was not the man who had betrayed me three years previously. Reluctant to assassinate him without answers I snuck aboard his ship. For three months I lay quiet in the cargo hold. When the ship finally surfaced at New Tokyo I ....
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117
"I won't lie to you" I said "I haven't got any coffee. I don't even like the stuff. I only asked you up here for some so that I could sex with you. Clearly this is already a relationship founded on lies, one which could never become anything meaningful. You can either cut your losses and get a taxi home or come into my room and have sex with me right now, but at this time of night you'd be lucky to find a cab before sunrise." I didn't expect the line to work, I'd have been happy with a handjob, but she said she'd take the sex. I should have known right then that this girl was trouble.
What should have been a typically depressing one night stand turned into a summer love, but without the love and most of the good weather. We were spending pretty much every night together. It wasn't like I even needed the sex. Before I'd met Kate I was having so much sex I barely had time for sex, but there was something about sex with Kate that was different to other girls. You couldn't say you enjoyed it. It was too intense for any modern man to truly enjoy, but you'd cut off your right arm and drill a hole in your head to stop anyone else getting their hands on it. It was like having a terrible drug addiction, but without all the fun that comes from taking drugs.
When I met Kate she was the head of a massive HR company in the City. She'd come home from a busy day at work, sit on the sofa and unwind by drinking a can of Red Bull. Sometimes she wouldn't even sit down. That's the kind of girl she was. Between work and all the fucking we were lucky get three hours sleep a night, but I'm not sure if she slept at all. I'd often wake up to find her standing at the window with a pen and notepad in her hand, but I was too scared to ask her what she was doing. Most nights she stayed at my place, even though it added an extra forty minutes to her journey to work the next day.
By Christmas we were more or less living together, but I honestly couldn't tell if she liked me or not. She never said that she did and my gut told me that she didn't, but I was willing to play along, if only because she wasn't the kind of girl who'd let you break up with her without your house burning down afterwards.
My parents really liked her, even though they didn't know the real Kate, she didn't even use her real accent when she spoke to them. The four of us would go for drinks at least once a month. Kate thought it was important that I spent time with my family. "Family's important" she'd say. She always made sure that we went somewhere that served ridiculous cocktails, just to be able to laugh with my mum and dad at the names of the drinks. She didn't even find the names funny, but she knew that listening to fully grown adults laughing at the word orgasm in public made me cringe.
She was always doing little things like that to make me feel uncomfortable. She'd flirt with my friends just to make them feel sorry for me. There was no way that she wasn't cheating on me, but I think she liked me enough to not sleep with my closest friends. Even though we barely spent any time apart I knew that she must have been having several affairs. She was too much for one man. It would have been a crime against the world for me to expect to have her all to myself. Kate was the kind of woman that wars were started over in ancient times, and probably a couple of South American countries today.
About eighteen months into our relationship I started to notice some changes. She started making obscure references to German films from the 1930s, films I'd never heard of. I thought we'd reached the beginning of the end and she'd leave me for a film buff, but I woke up one morning and found a note on my bed. She'd asked me to marry her. She didn't have time to ask me in person, because she had an early meeting that morning. It was an important meeting. I'd never really thought about marriage. I think she'd have been insulted if I'd proposed, so it was only natural that she was the one to ask. I thought about sending her a text to say yes, but I thought it would be a safer to play it romantic and wait until she came home. We didn't have time to throw and engagement party, because she had an announcement to make, as a result of her meeting that morning she had to go to Berlin the next day for six months. Berlin, Germany.
After she'd been away for a two weeks I got an e-mail from Kate telling me that as of that moment we were officially on a break, but the wedding would still go ahead as planned on the day she returned to Britain. I was free to see other women, but she would consider it a great insult if I did.
Five and a half months later she landed at Heathrow, but she wasn't alone. Whilst in Berlin she'd adopted a child. His name was Zeng. Five hours later we were man and wife, but the honeymoon was postponed until Zeng had time to settle in. He never did. It's not that I didn't want children and it's not that I'm in the slightest bit racist, but I'd always assumed that when I had kids they'd be my own and wouldn't be Chinese. Every time I tried to talk to Kate about Zeng she cut me down. "You can't complain" she'd say "We were on a break when I adopted him" I guess she was right.
Sandy, Milton Keynes.
What should have been a typically depressing one night stand turned into a summer love, but without the love and most of the good weather. We were spending pretty much every night together. It wasn't like I even needed the sex. Before I'd met Kate I was having so much sex I barely had time for sex, but there was something about sex with Kate that was different to other girls. You couldn't say you enjoyed it. It was too intense for any modern man to truly enjoy, but you'd cut off your right arm and drill a hole in your head to stop anyone else getting their hands on it. It was like having a terrible drug addiction, but without all the fun that comes from taking drugs.
When I met Kate she was the head of a massive HR company in the City. She'd come home from a busy day at work, sit on the sofa and unwind by drinking a can of Red Bull. Sometimes she wouldn't even sit down. That's the kind of girl she was. Between work and all the fucking we were lucky get three hours sleep a night, but I'm not sure if she slept at all. I'd often wake up to find her standing at the window with a pen and notepad in her hand, but I was too scared to ask her what she was doing. Most nights she stayed at my place, even though it added an extra forty minutes to her journey to work the next day.
By Christmas we were more or less living together, but I honestly couldn't tell if she liked me or not. She never said that she did and my gut told me that she didn't, but I was willing to play along, if only because she wasn't the kind of girl who'd let you break up with her without your house burning down afterwards.
My parents really liked her, even though they didn't know the real Kate, she didn't even use her real accent when she spoke to them. The four of us would go for drinks at least once a month. Kate thought it was important that I spent time with my family. "Family's important" she'd say. She always made sure that we went somewhere that served ridiculous cocktails, just to be able to laugh with my mum and dad at the names of the drinks. She didn't even find the names funny, but she knew that listening to fully grown adults laughing at the word orgasm in public made me cringe.
She was always doing little things like that to make me feel uncomfortable. She'd flirt with my friends just to make them feel sorry for me. There was no way that she wasn't cheating on me, but I think she liked me enough to not sleep with my closest friends. Even though we barely spent any time apart I knew that she must have been having several affairs. She was too much for one man. It would have been a crime against the world for me to expect to have her all to myself. Kate was the kind of woman that wars were started over in ancient times, and probably a couple of South American countries today.
About eighteen months into our relationship I started to notice some changes. She started making obscure references to German films from the 1930s, films I'd never heard of. I thought we'd reached the beginning of the end and she'd leave me for a film buff, but I woke up one morning and found a note on my bed. She'd asked me to marry her. She didn't have time to ask me in person, because she had an early meeting that morning. It was an important meeting. I'd never really thought about marriage. I think she'd have been insulted if I'd proposed, so it was only natural that she was the one to ask. I thought about sending her a text to say yes, but I thought it would be a safer to play it romantic and wait until she came home. We didn't have time to throw and engagement party, because she had an announcement to make, as a result of her meeting that morning she had to go to Berlin the next day for six months. Berlin, Germany.
After she'd been away for a two weeks I got an e-mail from Kate telling me that as of that moment we were officially on a break, but the wedding would still go ahead as planned on the day she returned to Britain. I was free to see other women, but she would consider it a great insult if I did.
Five and a half months later she landed at Heathrow, but she wasn't alone. Whilst in Berlin she'd adopted a child. His name was Zeng. Five hours later we were man and wife, but the honeymoon was postponed until Zeng had time to settle in. He never did. It's not that I didn't want children and it's not that I'm in the slightest bit racist, but I'd always assumed that when I had kids they'd be my own and wouldn't be Chinese. Every time I tried to talk to Kate about Zeng she cut me down. "You can't complain" she'd say "We were on a break when I adopted him" I guess she was right.
Sandy, Milton Keynes.
92
I was delighted in my lecture this morning when a girl sat next to me, not because I'm a pervert, but because it appeared that she had an equal or even greater uninterest in Egyptology than me.
After exchanging a few words it became clear that she too hadn't done the homework, in fact, she didn't even know what the homework was, one step greater than I. Our lecturer asked us to go over our homework for a few minutes, giving us a chance to do something, but I obviously hadn't bought the textbook that was needed and neither had she. A tie. Luckily the girl on my other side said I could use her's. After making a few notes, the girl who knew nothing asked me what I had written, so low was her knowledge of things Egyptian.
So there I was, giving out information about something I have no idea about like some sort of wise man. I was enchanted by her lack of research. We had both arrived late, so we had to sit on the chairs at the back without a desk. I simply rested my notepad on my lap in a casual manner, but this girl defeated me once more. She had just one piece of paper and nothing to press on. Can you imagine the genius of such a thing? One piece of paper and nothing to press on! So she folded the piece of paper two or three times and pressed it against her left hand. Her hand! She used her hand as a thing for pressing on! What could have possibly topped this? Her pen. Her pen was filled with red ink. Red ink! Who in their right mind uses red to write with? The odd word here and there, yes, but to write entire sentences is madness.
All the signs in my head suggested that I was in love with this girl. We would graduate together, get married and live out our lives as Egyptologists who know nothing about Egyptology. We would have a dozen kids and send them across the world to universities where they would get degrees in all sorts of unuseful things.
Then it happened. My dream was smashed. My lecturer asked a question, a question open to anyone in the class and the girl cried out with an answer. Such enthusiasm did not fit in with my plan of a life of no knowledge. She was a fraud, she probably had shelves filled with books about Egypt. A shame.
Anthony, Swansea.
After exchanging a few words it became clear that she too hadn't done the homework, in fact, she didn't even know what the homework was, one step greater than I. Our lecturer asked us to go over our homework for a few minutes, giving us a chance to do something, but I obviously hadn't bought the textbook that was needed and neither had she. A tie. Luckily the girl on my other side said I could use her's. After making a few notes, the girl who knew nothing asked me what I had written, so low was her knowledge of things Egyptian.
So there I was, giving out information about something I have no idea about like some sort of wise man. I was enchanted by her lack of research. We had both arrived late, so we had to sit on the chairs at the back without a desk. I simply rested my notepad on my lap in a casual manner, but this girl defeated me once more. She had just one piece of paper and nothing to press on. Can you imagine the genius of such a thing? One piece of paper and nothing to press on! So she folded the piece of paper two or three times and pressed it against her left hand. Her hand! She used her hand as a thing for pressing on! What could have possibly topped this? Her pen. Her pen was filled with red ink. Red ink! Who in their right mind uses red to write with? The odd word here and there, yes, but to write entire sentences is madness.
All the signs in my head suggested that I was in love with this girl. We would graduate together, get married and live out our lives as Egyptologists who know nothing about Egyptology. We would have a dozen kids and send them across the world to universities where they would get degrees in all sorts of unuseful things.
Then it happened. My dream was smashed. My lecturer asked a question, a question open to anyone in the class and the girl cried out with an answer. Such enthusiasm did not fit in with my plan of a life of no knowledge. She was a fraud, she probably had shelves filled with books about Egypt. A shame.
Anthony, Swansea.
86
I'm not a very good writer, but I had a wonderful idea for a love story, so I wrote a book. It was rubbish, the pacing was all wrong, the grammar stunk and the dialogue was completely unbelievable, but I felt there was enough in the plot to try to get it published.
I knew someone in publishing, so that was easy enough, I just needed a way to get the love story across, so that it wasn't buried under my terrible writing style.
What I needed was a font, a font so powerful that it would leave the reader heartbroken. I scrolled through Microsoft Word, but there were none up to the task. I took it upon myself to create a font from scratch.
Six weeks later I had it. It was breathtaking, the Os, the Es, the Ys, oh, the Ys. You've never seen anything like them. I loved it so much that I decided to use it on the front cover. It was a terrible mistake, because, by them time anyone had finished reading the title, they were so emotionally drained they couldn't face reading the book.
G. Perry, Camden.
I knew someone in publishing, so that was easy enough, I just needed a way to get the love story across, so that it wasn't buried under my terrible writing style.
What I needed was a font, a font so powerful that it would leave the reader heartbroken. I scrolled through Microsoft Word, but there were none up to the task. I took it upon myself to create a font from scratch.
Six weeks later I had it. It was breathtaking, the Os, the Es, the Ys, oh, the Ys. You've never seen anything like them. I loved it so much that I decided to use it on the front cover. It was a terrible mistake, because, by them time anyone had finished reading the title, they were so emotionally drained they couldn't face reading the book.
G. Perry, Camden.
65
I suffer from a very rare medical condition, only two people in the history of time have ever had it; me and my reflection. People used to think that I was very vain, because I was always looking in the mirror. What they didn't realise was every time I looked at myself in the mirror I traded places with my reflection. I’d become trapped inside the mirror whilst my reflection would become a real person. I used to swap as often as I could, because I didn't like the idea of one of us being trapped as a reflection for very long. It wasn't so bad being stuck in a cold and two dimensional world if you knew that you'd be let out in a few hours, but, like most things, that all changed because of a girl.
I met Rachel when I was seventeen. Her family had just moved over from Canada and she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. After meeting her I started looking at my reflection less and less. Why would I want to look at my ugly face when I could have been looking at her's?
After a couple of months we were dating and I was avoiding mirrors at all costs, because I wanted to spend all of my time with her. I knew pretty soon that I was in love with her, and I think that my reflection loved her too, because he seemed to be avoiding looking at me almost as much as I was avoiding looking at him. We couldn't help catching each other's eyes though, in the surface of a pond, the glass of a window. It was a constant struggle to avoid seeing my face, but it was nothing compared to the split second when I recognised myself in the window of a passing car, that fear, the uncertainty, when would I be with Rachel again? What if I never got out of the reflection? Doomed to spend eternity trapped behind a surface, forever looking out at him, with her. How long would it take for me to become my reflection if I spent every minute reflecting him?
As I got older I got better at avoiding my reflection, but I was becoming ashamed of myself. What had I done to the one person who had always stuck by me my whole life? On my 21st birthday I made a deal with my reflection, every year, on this day we would come to the fair and visit the House of Mirrors, whichever of us came out would have her for the next 365 days. It was the best birthday present either of us could wish for.
Tom, Wales.
I met Rachel when I was seventeen. Her family had just moved over from Canada and she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. After meeting her I started looking at my reflection less and less. Why would I want to look at my ugly face when I could have been looking at her's?
After a couple of months we were dating and I was avoiding mirrors at all costs, because I wanted to spend all of my time with her. I knew pretty soon that I was in love with her, and I think that my reflection loved her too, because he seemed to be avoiding looking at me almost as much as I was avoiding looking at him. We couldn't help catching each other's eyes though, in the surface of a pond, the glass of a window. It was a constant struggle to avoid seeing my face, but it was nothing compared to the split second when I recognised myself in the window of a passing car, that fear, the uncertainty, when would I be with Rachel again? What if I never got out of the reflection? Doomed to spend eternity trapped behind a surface, forever looking out at him, with her. How long would it take for me to become my reflection if I spent every minute reflecting him?
As I got older I got better at avoiding my reflection, but I was becoming ashamed of myself. What had I done to the one person who had always stuck by me my whole life? On my 21st birthday I made a deal with my reflection, every year, on this day we would come to the fair and visit the House of Mirrors, whichever of us came out would have her for the next 365 days. It was the best birthday present either of us could wish for.
Tom, Wales.
61
I've done many things in the name of love. I've run marathons, I've spelled out words in rose petals, I've strangled the life out of an unknown man, but I've done far worse things in the name of hunger.
Chris, Somerset.
Chris, Somerset.
42
For years I would wake up in middle of the night covered in sweat with the same burning question on my cold, cold mind; could I love a woman if I found out that she was nothing but a robot? This wasn't like finding out that your girlfriend used to be a man with balls and logic, that I could cope with, but to love a woman that was made of wires and chips, was it possible?
I've never been a religious man and I certainly don't believe in a soul, so I didn't have that to worry about, which made it even harder to decide, because I could have immediately dismissed her if she didn't have a soul if and believed in such nonsensical nonsense. Aren't we all just machines of meat and bones at the end of the day? I'd ask myself. As long as she was self aware then there was nothing wrong with it, was there? I just didn't know. Maybe it would just come down to how big her tits were.
I needed to know for sure though, so I built a robot. That was the easy part. The hard part was making me forget she was a robot. Amnesia is no easy thing. It's not like you see on t.v. I had to hit myself on the head five, maybe six times before I forgot everything.
So there I was lying on the floor of my lab all dazed and confused, when who should help me up but my beautiful robot robot. I was captivated by her beauty. She took me to casualty and we bonded as I waited in the ER for four hours. Say what you will about the NHS, but their long waiting times sure do help you full in love with robots.
She was programmed to learn and make her own decisions, in that sense she was as human as me and maybe even you. She was smart, funny and not even a slight racist. She was my perfect woman. I'd even go as far as saying she was my soul mate if I believed souls or if she wasn't a soulless machine.
Within six months we were engaged to be wed. We arranged a winter wedding, because she loved the snow. I'd programmed her to do just one thing other than be completely free to make her own decisions; on the day of our wedding she had to come forward and tell me that she was a robot. God knows why I did such a thing. How was I supposed to explain to 500 guests that the wedding was off because it turned out I'd fallen in love with a robot? I didn't call the wedding of though. I was too shocked and needed time to think. So I spent the entire honeymoon laying on the beach asking myself one burning question; if I found out that my wife was a robot, could I stay married to her? I've been asking myself the same question ever since.
Andrew, Devon.
I've never been a religious man and I certainly don't believe in a soul, so I didn't have that to worry about, which made it even harder to decide, because I could have immediately dismissed her if she didn't have a soul if and believed in such nonsensical nonsense. Aren't we all just machines of meat and bones at the end of the day? I'd ask myself. As long as she was self aware then there was nothing wrong with it, was there? I just didn't know. Maybe it would just come down to how big her tits were.
I needed to know for sure though, so I built a robot. That was the easy part. The hard part was making me forget she was a robot. Amnesia is no easy thing. It's not like you see on t.v. I had to hit myself on the head five, maybe six times before I forgot everything.
So there I was lying on the floor of my lab all dazed and confused, when who should help me up but my beautiful robot robot. I was captivated by her beauty. She took me to casualty and we bonded as I waited in the ER for four hours. Say what you will about the NHS, but their long waiting times sure do help you full in love with robots.
She was programmed to learn and make her own decisions, in that sense she was as human as me and maybe even you. She was smart, funny and not even a slight racist. She was my perfect woman. I'd even go as far as saying she was my soul mate if I believed souls or if she wasn't a soulless machine.
Within six months we were engaged to be wed. We arranged a winter wedding, because she loved the snow. I'd programmed her to do just one thing other than be completely free to make her own decisions; on the day of our wedding she had to come forward and tell me that she was a robot. God knows why I did such a thing. How was I supposed to explain to 500 guests that the wedding was off because it turned out I'd fallen in love with a robot? I didn't call the wedding of though. I was too shocked and needed time to think. So I spent the entire honeymoon laying on the beach asking myself one burning question; if I found out that my wife was a robot, could I stay married to her? I've been asking myself the same question ever since.
Andrew, Devon.
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