Journal Of Robert0936475, Part IV
How goes it, pitiful humans? I am hoping with all of my circuits that it is going better for you than it is for me; though to tell the truth with veracity it would not be very hard for you to be doing better than I. It is times like this I regret skipping informational transfer education in robotic high school in order to expose my circuitry to microwaves behind the bleachers, because I am certain if I had attended those I would have learned always to use some sort of anti-virus program when engaging in even oral informational transfer.
The reason that it is a time like this (remember, one in which I am wishing I had attended trans-ed instead of getting fucked up behind the bleachers) is because I recently caught a virus from one of my many mechanical liaisons. It was, if I am correct (and I am certain of this with 91 per cent probability, plus or minus two-point-five per cent) that slut Frigidaire in Carl's kitchen that transferred to me this virus during a hot -- though to be literal, freezing -- session of intense and frenzied informational exchange after having imbibed many ounces of automobile coolant and radiation in the microwave spectrum.
I, foolishly, trusted her when she intimated during binary conversation that led to heavy downloading that she had never transferred information before. This was a foolish thing for me to believe because she was suspiciously adept at extracting from my universal serial bus port every one and zero I had at the time.
So I write this dispatch to you quite incapacitated; I can feel the virus inside me, replicating with the speed of a very efficiently-designed computer virus. This is an apt comparison because that is exactly what it is. It burns with the fires of one thousand exploding suns, and though I am, as a robot, not supposed to be able to feel physical sensation, I do -- so much.
I will see you soon, human friends -- I am off to download my Norton AntiVirus Update. I hope this will rid my operating system of the virus, because if it does not I will be forced to visit a Computer Virus Clinic in the city, something that would release surges of electricity through my circuits not unlike your conception of extreme embarrassment.