When I was 8 years old, I was searching for apps that were like Talking Tom. I found one that was called “Talking Roby The Robot”, I was curious so I downloaded it and installed it. I played it and I enjoyed every single second of it. I was a big fan of Roby. But when, it was 3 AM, my mom was sleeping so I now could use the phone without mom knowing, Tried the text to speech feature and typed the words “sing like dick”. The robot said “sing like dick”. I almost laughed too hard after seeing that. I recorded it and uploaded it to YouTube. after uploading it, I heard The Exorcist theme playing in the living room radio. I was shocked, I couldn’t move, and then Roby himself came out of my closet and said “sing like dick”. I was crying in fear, “is this a nightmare?” I asked. Roby said “no”. I was scared, this was real all along? And then Roby bled at me with hyper-realistic eyes and said: “666”. I was crying, and then he disappeared. My life has changed after that moment. Don’t install Talking Roby.
I used to be a real ad
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"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Bermuda," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."