I’m just a robot pretending to be human:

I almost feel bad for actually feeling hostile to the whirring of blades and the erratic but jarring punctuation of breaths especially within the confines of the kitchen; the aberrant obsession with social networking platforms and the necessity of (and for) mutual masturbation; the seemingly inconspicuous fishing for compliments by pretending not to know why she said what about you — the fact that I enter the kitchen to get a glass of anything does not warrant an update of contrived, self-centered monologue of your imaginary harem and the lack of decent food (because you refuse to cook) and then assuming that you and I are now in some semblance of a conversation. Sometimes I try to pretend I’m alone in the house just so that I can avoid the guilt of giving automatically generated responses triggered by fear and caustic apathy.