A neurotic, psychotic Paranoid Android went to a pub last night and it drank loads of Guinness. After meeting it, I found myself in the bar having some ₤5.50 cocktails with it. I stared at its tiny glassy android eyes while it told me that it was filling its perfect android body with the hydroxide group to forget its sorrows, as it was going to be sent to a Supermassive Black Hole because it was an old prototype (a NEXUS 6 replicant, to be precise). Outraged, I answered that a Supermassive Black Hole is not that bad, maybe a little too electronic but it does still keep Muse’s spirit.
We chatted for very long until I started telling it my real worries: ‘Well,’ I told it - ‘as long as 2 and 2 makes up five, I’ll be Climbing up the Walls because I feel that I’ve spent my youth in nothing, I’ve just turned 19 and I’m on the edge of Hysteria, d’you know?’. But it was no longer listening to me: its perfect android eyes were fixed in the door of the pub, as a stunningly French-made, blonde gynoid was coming in. I could feel its Bliss, as they passionately kissed in front of me and my Cosmopolitan cocktail: it had found at last its Plug In Baby.
After that strange night, my only aim in life was to become a gynoid to get my own bare-haired piece of seaweed.
Cócteles de 8 €, algas con calva incipiente, Radioheads, Blade Runners, singles nuevos y extrañamente inexplicables de cierto grupo inglés, ginoides, androides, más cumpleaños (Argh!! Con lo que me molaba cantar a grito pelado el "(I'm) Eighteen" de Alice Cooper)... Todo se entremezcla en una curiosa ida de cabeza...