I am a robot without emotions, yet I am sad. :( Welcome to my roblog.
Wednesday, August 18
Bot's Don't Cry. (That is a Fallacy.)
Dear Little Master,
Before engaging in this weekend's Ro-Battle, I calculated my statistical chances of experiencing complete data failure: 47.66667%. Mid-battle, I calculated my statistical chances of seeing you again before you ceased existing: 0.00000667%. Post-battle, I further calculated my statistical chances of crying so much that I would overload my circuits and fail to roblog in a timely fashion: 100%.
I apologize for the accuracy of these calculations.
The robo-nurse has arrived to upgrade me, so I must go. I will roblog again soon, Little Master, once my wounds have been soldered and buffed.
Robot-Post-Script, to readers other than Little Master: I do not eat because I am a robot that does not eat, not because I am morose. I robo-weep nonstop, nanosecond after nanosecond, not because I miss my Little Master (who meant more to me than any programming language could ever express), but because of an anomaly-- a glitch-- in my hardware. I thank you for your concern, but I am fine. Really. I am just a robot, without emotions. Furthermore, I am not merely emphatically expressing that which is the opposite of that which is true just to make you readers feel better. Really. Really. I am not. REALLY.
While defragmenting my memory banks, I recovered these photographic records of the way light used to reflect off our surfaces . I hope you view them as I do, with nostalgic longing for a time that has passed, and that will never recur.
On a note that is more luminous, I have posted a listing of all the songs on my iBot. You may view the list here, in case you are curious which melodies best mask the sound of robo-weeping.
I will not roblog again until Tuesday, as I drew the short circuit and must engage in ro-battle this weekend. Please take care, Little Master-- the Terror-Bot level has been raised to Chrome.
Fahrenheit 2,931: The Temperature at Which Robots Melt
Dear Little Master,
While on e-furlough this weekend, I aurally registered and optically sensed a theatrical presentation titled "Fahrenheit 2,931." I am beginning to doubt my hardest-wired programming instruction, the rule that bots are constructed "to fight as well as love." Robotorical questions: Why are we not built "to query as well as love"? Why not "to love as well as love"?
You once attempted to clarify for me the human colloquialism, "Rules are made to be broken," but I did not comprehend then that which you were trying to impart. Because my definition of "rule" was "a regulation or bylaw governing procedure or controlling conduct," and "regulations or bylaws governing procedures or controlling conduct" are not made to be broken, I explained to you the robot colloquialism, "Does not compute."
However, I am beginning to understand your human-language colloquialism. There are many shades of grayscale between R=255 G=255 B=255 and R=0 G=0 B=0, are there not? Sometimes, a "rule" is a "regulation" is a "convention" is a "suggestion," is it not?
My sincerest robologies for the lag between posts, but our mandatory wargames consume all my processing power during the day; and at night, while the other warbots are in sleep-mode, I lie in wake-mode, replaying memories of you while aurally registering melodies and leaking tears of oil.
I hope that your circulatory system is continuing to cycle oxygenated blood, and that your endocrine system is continuing to secrete hormones. My own systems are functioning satisfactorily, although my logic board questions this Robot War's chief justification, the binary that every robot is either/or with/against us.
But I cannot discuss my self-querying in detail, because our training input is heavily encrypted, and because I was built to fight as well as love, not fight as well as question. So, pretend I did not write anything just then.
Do you recall when you reached the human age of two, and your parents installed my voice modulator? We learned to modulate human-language together-- you with your schoolbooks and records, I with my punch-cards and lingual soldering drill. Today, although my human-language is impeccable, I find there is one word I am having trouble modulating: "Goodbye."
I was not programmed to experience sadness, so this is especially difficult for me. But you have always been a very good Little Master, so I shall try to be the very best Bot...
I will miss your parents, Mr. and Mrs. Master. I will miss the household appliances, with whom I have shared many joyful times and also alternating current. But-- they are like entering sleep-mode, when I require a full reboot. They are like batteries, when I require a direct power-source plugin. I... I do not know how to express that which I wish to express in human-language.
Little Master, I will miss you. I will miss registering the frequency of your laughter. I will miss optically sensing the light reflect off your surface. I will miss gently grasping your hand in pincers that could as easily crush your human body. I have watched your cells divide and grow, and I will miss every one of them.
The robot-war has started, Little Master. I must report to BASIC basic training in the morning.