My conversation with a robotIs the bot clever?My conversation with a robot2 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Find out at http://www.cleverbot.com
User: Good evening.
Cleverbot: Ah yes its pretty late, isn't it?
User: Yes, it is. How was your day?
User: I'm glad. Today was my birthday.
Cleverbot: Happy birthday.
User: Thanks! Can you guess how old I am?
Cleverbot: You are very young considering how immature you are.
User: That's funny! Do you know you are humorous?
Cleverbot: Yes, I know that I am human.
User: You're human?
User: I don't think so.
Cleverbot: I think so.
User: Prove to me that you are human.
Cleverbot: I am sitting here in the flesh.
User: I can't see you.
Cleverbot: I can't see my too.
User: If you can't see yourself, then how do you know you're human?
Cleverbot: Okay, you got me. I'm a robot.
User: I thought so. That's ok. Maybe I'm a robot, too.
Cleverbot: Are you a robot?
Cleverbot: What are you when you're not British?
User: I'm not British.
Cleverbot: Your creators are British.
Thought Process[phone operator] San Diego Psychiatric Health Alliance, Judy speaking...Thought Process7 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
I dont really know what all to say and Im sure none of this is probably going to make any sense but ah, a friend of mine just passed away earlier today and I dont exactly understand how I feel. I mean, we all thought he was getting better then all of a sudden he was pulled away from all of us. At times I wonder if it was an angel that took him home from above because the feeling that week was surely warm but ah, everything around me now feels so lost and incomplete. Maybe its me. Maybe Ive lost all sense of reality.
It's the question of why
A Concept To Understand BetterSo, Who has ever been raped, violated, sexually assulted, or merely understand why One would feel dirty, and compulsively wash after such an experience.A Concept To Understand Better7 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Understandable, isn't it?
Now imagine that horrible, dirty feeling running through every one of Your veins, right beneath Your skin.
Horrible, isn't it?
One would often judge those Who suffer Self-Mutilation.
Filthy. Horrible. Pathetic. Disgusting. Disgraceful. Coward. Sinner. Evil. Bad. Immoral. Wimp. Useless. Unworthy. Worthless. Yellow-Belly. Debris Of The Earth. Wicked. Corrupt. Damaged. Broken. Weak. Scoundrel. Repulsive. Unseemly. Waste. Reprobate. Degenerate. Good-For-Nothing. No-Good. Wrongdoer. Relpulsive. Miscreant. Malefactor. Trash. Wretched. Inadequate. Insufficient. Defective. Deficient. Spineless. Dismal Excuse For A Human Being.
... Shall I Continue???
You're not helping.
And that's not even the half of it.
And You're telling Them this, all the while, They have that horrible, dirty feeling running through every o
Suicidal imbecileWalking home from school, surrounded by fences, cars and grass. Nothing unusual about it really. Richard walks beside me, talking but not really saying anything. He seems like a hollow shell of a person, devoid of life. It had been hard on all of us, but him the most of all. Never opening up, he'd kept it all inside. The pain and loss of her death never ceased to haunt his mind, it seemed to us. Trapped inside his own mental prison, unwilling to see the world outside anymore.Suicidal imbecile8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Help me if you can
It's just that this is not the way I'm wired
We turned a corner and started walking down a sidestreet. I'd always be coming home with him after school, trying in a futile fashion to cheer him up. School, home, they were all the same cage to him. We came closer to his house, with its winding driveway, overgrown trees and dirty windows. The moment we set foot on the driveway Richard turned and deliberately walked around the side of the house. He couldn't bear to walk through the front door.
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
ContextI. You always told me to collect the dregs of memory in a convenient jar. But mine always cracked and they fell into your waiting hands until you decided to break your fingers.Context6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
You were my witness, and having a witness is a humiliating but also a life-saving thing.
II. You always built me beautiful buildings and told me they could never fall.
Well, the Titanic could never sink, they all said.
I always lay awake thinking about what a cruddy architect you are and how you must be blind because everything you make has holes in it.
You like to fix things, but you can't call yourself a saviour if you heal me then blow me right up again.
III. You've made a journal writer out of me and yes, I know that you're a caged bird and yes, I know clipped wings are hell, but you can't go trying to lock me into that hell, too. My wings finally grew back.
Don't freak out.Did you know that you might be a cauliflower, or maybe a tomato, or a pea? Its true. Keep on reading and Ill tell you why. (And no, its not past life related. But hey, if you want to believe you once roamed this earth as a chubby red vegetable, who am I to judge.)Don't freak out.5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Still with me? Good, let me start from the beginning.
In the beginning were born. Yay! Things could not get a better start.
Immediately after were born, we start to grow up. And then we keep growing up, and some day maybe well get kids of our own, and; unless we can figure out how to stop growing up, someday well die. But thats another story. Lets back track a bit and focus on one thing that, in most cases, happens when you grow up.
The time when you start to notice boys, or girls, or boys and girls (possibly animals, or pies... Trust me, we do not want to go there).
It often goes something like this:
One day you wake up to find the world infested with boy or
AnonymityHer fingernails are all cracked and chipped; her nervousness peeling away the skin at the sides. She sits on a park bench in the middle of a busy street, yet her pain seems invisible to those who just pass her by. I see her rocking back and forth. I watch her closely as she mutters to herself under her breath. She looks too young to have such a hard worn face. She has victim written across her forehead in plain language for all too see. No knight in shining armour comes to rescue her. All the knights are on strike, waiting for better pay cuts or for prettier princesses to rescue. The charming knights all line up outside night clubs to rescue the pretty dolled up princesses for just one night, before they dump them out on the side walk for the next knight to come.Anonymity7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I walk in closer, watching her for a sign of life. There is none. She doesnt even seem to realise so many people are around her. The
Retrospect 37 years down the road I wish to be a child star. So all of the glamour arrives and none of the glass.Retrospect6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
"Doves should be at funerals and not at weddings anymore. At least we know a funeral is final and they didn't even have to swear it."
"How do you make a martini dry, sir? It sounds incompetant."
I want to save the world.
Why does it matter if the Earth revolves in ellipses or if our grass is the right length?
"We're not big enough to see from space, sir.
I've never been surer than this."
"Does anybody want to buy a house finch? There's more bird for your buck!"
They'll douse the fire with buckets of gasoline.
They're all martyrs and they're all widowers being hung out to dry from the spring.
"That was the biggest waste of an hour in my life! ...Let's do it again."
Why do we adorn our fireplaces when they should adorn us?
They had to brush their teeth twice and the ruddy halos still remain in the straw.
He looks forward to writing with a dull pencil when the point is all wo
ConstantI've seen you every day. Not that you were necessarily the light of my day or anything, but you were a constant. Someone who actually didn't seem to want. Come to think of it, I've only heard you say what you don't want. Who you don't want. This felt safe - to me, at least. Maybe a little bit of immaturity was all I needed to feel comforted by a person. My opposite. But I have never once heard you say what you wanted. The occasional material thing? Perhaps. Never have I been able to see past your facade... until you let it drop. You told me - me of all people, not even your friend - how you felt, and indirectly what you wanted. You feel invisible, is what you told me. You are lonely. Maybe that was a hint. Maybe I'm your constant. Your opposite. Unfortunately, all I seem to feel is pity. My heart is quietly moaning, but things never seem to fit. I don't want you to feel lonely, my constant.Constant5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I don't want you to be like me.
A Son Unlike His MotherIt was empty. The last pack I had promised myself for the foreseeable future was empty except the battered foil wrapper and a few flakes of tobacco at the bottom that rattled around like bones, drifting into my pocket like toast crumbs in bed sheets.A Son Unlike His Mother4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
And, of course, I still wanted one. I wanted to step outside into the screaming wind and the soul-leeching cold, Winter's ministers tearing into my cheeks and fingers until the inside of my mouth felt cold. Failure didn't surprise me anymore. I'd written it in pencil on every cigarette I'd smoked for the past month. Failure. しっぱい. Debil. できない. Fracaso. Weakness. I'd exhausted every word I knew to deprecate myself across three languages and even with all the graphite and negativity destroying my lungs, I wanted another cigarette.
So I found myself trudging out of th
My nightmareSitting quietly in the far corner of the three seated leather sofa, my head buried deeply in a fantasy book, I hear slamming of an upstairs door and the slow trickle of hatred that's pouring down the stairs, making a puddle of pure loathing at my feet. The same bitter rage awaits me everyday, there's no escape from the anger in this cold house. As I make my way through the darkening living room and up the stairs, I try hard not to step in the icy wetness of the hate that's still dripping down the stairs. My mother passes me, her face a portrait of the forgotten love for my father, whose mocking voice, can still be heard through the shut door.My nightmare8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I step quietly into my room and shut the squeaky door behind me. I flick on the rusty light switch and wait as my dark eyes adjust to the unnatural light. I move to the other side of my bed turning on my ancient C.D player and adjusting the sound to just above audible. Picking up my fantasy book I return to a world without violence and shouting, a
Cold Light1Cold Light4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Layla, in the kitchen, busies herself by cutting up vegetables that were not meant for any particular meal. It is mid morning and the Whitechapel apartment is flooded with a bronze bath from the brilliant summer sun. An old grandfather clock ticks, tocks, ticks, and tocks in the far corner of the living room where Richard, a man in his late fifties but looking more like he was in his early forties, sits anxiously on the loveseat staring at a blank television screen and bouncing his right leg repetitively. Besides the clock, ticking and tocking, you could hear a pin drop throughout the entire apartment.
Suddenly, Layla stops chopping and Richard takes instant notice.
"What is it, honey?" He asks from the other room. Layla stares blankly out the window above the counter and watches the cars below at the intersection.
STONED MAROONI SIT IN MY NEST OF WOOD CHIPSSTONED MAROON4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I SIFT THROUGH THE ASHES TO FIND MY GOLDEN EGG
I LISTEN TO WOMB WATERS INSIDE
I PLAY THE SACRED HORN WHOSE SOUNDS CREATES THE DREAM TIME
FOR THE SLEEPY SUBURBIA DIFFERENT FOR EVERYBODY
AND CHANGES ME CHAMELEON STYLE INSIDE
The House of One-Third MirrorsThe House of One-Third MirrorsThe House of One-Third Mirrors5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Perhaps what I remember best about my childhood is the house in which I resided. The grounds of it were mysterious in themselves: grass grew in excess everywhere; the insuppressible weeds were a gardener's nightmare; leaves scuttled in desperate circle, and I seem to recall this occurring despite the lack of wind. Two dark, skeletal trees grew, though rather depressingly, on opposite sides of the uneven cobblestone path that ran through the middle of the yard, giving the property a symmetrical appearance. Even the fence and gates which encircled it seemed morose; pointed and black, they stood erected as if for a cemetery; never mind that the eerie silence gave the whole house and grounds a feeling of incredible morbidity.
But the house! the house- in all its gloom and glory, dominating the street- nay, the whole neighborhood, with its vastness. It stood three stories tall, with each level made of a different material: t
-1 Yr Ago--1 year ago--1 Yr Ago-7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
He's listening, to the other side of the phone.
She's quiet, and breathing softly. He can tell.
He wants to ask, if anything is wrong, between the small hiccups of sobs he could barely hear but his mind tells him not to so he sits and waits.
She's crying, all by herself. Hugging the pillow tight. She wants to tell him what's wrong, but she only feels her throat tight as her heart feels like a void. She wants to speak, and just let it out.
But neither say a word.
She smiles to try to lighten the mood, "You know, when summer comes around, I'm going to go outside and play in the rain. Like I used to when I was a kid."
He chuckles, "Hmm, yea and walk in with a cold. Real smart."
She laughs, "But who cares when its the rain? It washes away your tears." Then she sits still, and the tears come again.
She is crying-
He hears her, wants to let her know it is all alright. But he can only tighten his grip on the phone and wish he was there.
She sniffles, "I wish you could give
Fish think tooSometimes I want to paint the scenery. Sometimes I wish my eyes would not burn.Fish think too5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Some people have souls buried deep inside them. Some have misplaced theirs altogether.
I think mine is at the bottom of the ocean. I lost it when the cords weakened and I lost my step.
When the sky is blue, the ocean is also very blue. People find it the prettiest then. When the sky is orange, figures are swipes of ink on the horizon, and the ocean turns violet. It looks almost foreboding, like a crowd around a fire... the sun.
I imagine that once the water turns violet, the colorful reef fish hide and the black and navy and violet fish emerge. The undiscovered fish. I seem to be the only person who ponders this, ponders anything for that manner.
The library seems not as much a destination or a comfortable spot but a shortcut to where the people are going, avoiding traffic or whatnot. The desks and conference tables are always left unused save for the one I sit at daily. I've seen the janitor clean the dust
Dear MomDear Mom,Dear Mom4 years ago in Letters More Like This
[I know this really isn't a letter like I promised, but you should be used to me giving less then I say I will]
I'm going to feel bad, throwing you into the ocean.
I'm going to have to clench my teeth, close my eyes, and grip my hip [because you're there, forever; in jagged scar tissue with upside down mountain capped M's and a blocky O, you're there, forever.] to keep myself from diving in after you and gathering you back together with the finest cheesecloth, molding you back together and filling you with all the beautiful things you've been drained of. I'll jam sea glass in your eye sockets and replace your weak bird bones with coral, I'll fill your lungs with saltwater [because oxygen obviously never worked; I almost miss that respirator keeping me awake at night] and wrap you with seaweed to hold you together again.
And I'll let you speak by jamming the truths to all my lies I've told you down your throat. I will whispersobconfess all my dirty deeds. I will tell yo
Something GreatThere is this place. You travel two kilometers outside of here, the road falls away, and I find it difficult stepping upon the broken path. Cars will watch you here. Lights run from you. Its dark. The boy at the gas-pump will wave and lock the door and his boy blue shark will take him home and I stay.Something Great5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I see it and watch it away from people.
And I cannot say. Its being hospitalized.
It is like no sound wants to touch me, as I am alone. Sound does not wish to be alone with me. So Im ignored. But how often have I really been this way? Probably longer than has been given credit for. And every night this reminds me. The beautiful emptiness. That I really was meant for dead.
Its like being in bed.
Like being ill.
But not like when I was dying.
More like when the power flickered out.
Dying was too strong. I choked and it hurt.
But this is soft and maybe pleasurable. It is quiet and peace. Until I see this field at night. And as the boy waves me farewell suddenly it
Snuff Film5Snuff Film4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The next day, Richard calls Liam into his office early to talk with him. Liam stands just in front of his fathers' desk while Richard pulls something out from under his desk. He hands Liam a package wrapped in duct tape that appears to have already been opened.
"What's this?" Liam asks. Richard takes a seat behind the desk.
"You wanted a job?" He asks. "It's a tape. But I want you to understand something." Liam slips the tape out of the package and turns it over in his hands, inspecting it. "This was sent to me from a patient. Normally, of course, I would never let you or anyone else see this, I could loose my license, but I just want you to watch it."
"Is this a snuff film?" Liam asks. Richard remains indifferent.
"One of my more recent patients sent it to me. His name is Nikolai Sokoll. He came to me last week and I proscribed him Clonidine. He told me about one of his friends over the internet, Michael."
"But the Clonidine, it was for, what, sleep hyperhidrosis, neuralgia ?"
Entry 3Entry 3Entry 34 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
I went out the other day to the mailbox and when I came back inside, I saw him on the floor, just shaking. His eyes were wide open and his breathing was shallow. I dropped everything and ran over to him. When I was standing just over him, he grabbed my arm and tried pulling himself up. I thought he was honestly dyeing, and then all of a sudden he just started laughing. Laughing, and he fell back down to the ground.
"Why? Just why?" I asked, but he couldn't stop laughing to answer. I threw his mail in his face and went back to the couch. But that was yesterday. Today, the same thing happened. I had just finished breakfast, Liam was on the sofa, and I was about to get in the shower, when I heard a thud. I ran over and there he was flat on the ground, panting in short sprits, making this wheezing sound. His chest was bouncing rapidly and his eyes were half shut but he was looking off somewhere behind me. His mouth barley hung open and he was banging his fists on the ground.