R. Kreutz-Landry

Lines By R. Kreutz-Landry:

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I mean, honestly, who puts 'Zero-G Maintenance Technician' into the occupation field anywa... oh... ooohhh shit... OH MY GOD!?!?! That moron thought I wanted to be a goddamn MONKEY!
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The dull, disdainful stare leveled at her had the predictable effect. In short, none. It would have taken more imagination than she had ready to hand to comprehend his contempt.
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No one anticipated the horrific consequences of narrative artificial intelligence.
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"Ish" sounds like I'm the edited-for-radio version of "shit."
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So here we are again. I'd feel better if I could hate myself for being such a coward, but I'm afraid even to do that. It might spur me to actually do something crazy.
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That's the last thing I remember. And now... lying here in the dark... I can feel the sun on my face. I can feel the breeze stealing the warmth of my tears from my face.
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All of a sudden I could see his eyes, smiling at me behind a Santa beard, fifteen years ago. I could smell the woody, piney smell of a Christmas tree. The image gone in a moment, I imagined his dead, cold eyes behind the gun now.
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I almost lost it. 10... 9... 8... okay. Okay. "I do NOT give a single, solitary rat's ass WHAT you have to do to recreate her. If this thing goes south, you, me, EVERYBODY IN THIS WHOLE GODDAMN PLACE is going to be so much fucking space dust."
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Can you believe that tripe? Mr. I Can Emulate 600 Unique Human Emotions (And Use Contractions) Because I Am So Freaking Superior To Your Outmoded Junkyard Scrap Of A Model thinks he is so superior. Well, just wait until he gets a load of this!
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I could. I think... I think I pushed her under. And she never came back up. Am I doubly damned? Or just one and two ninths damned?
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I ever stood in. You might be sitting there thinking to yourself that can't be possible. But hey, it's true. Private tutor, never seen the inside of a grocery store, in a word - moneyed. And then all this happened.
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It's hard to relax when you've got a gas giant blotting out two thirds of the sky.
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A tail? Well, crap. There's been a royal mix up, and somebody's going to pay. Big time.
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She wasn't making any sense, but it didn't really matter. Somebody's brother's cousin's wife's former roommate had kissed some serious ass to get this guy a job. But... I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen.
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For a moment, I wondered whether what we were doing was humane. This experiment had given a whole new meaning to the phrase bird-brained.
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okay crap is this stupid forking capitalize voice dictation working yet question mark god stupid bugging period
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The world shouldn't be afraid of a Doctor Frankenstein. The world should be afraid of biomed grad students and grant bureaucracy.
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All I'm saying, is, well, there's a guy in a blue shirt and khakis, with a red can in his hand, walking into this place, with a limited schedule. That's all important.
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Really, though, what sort of moron looks at a custom order for a thumb-splice onto the lower limbs for a nullgrav dock-monkey and thinks, "gee, what the hell, I'll just throw in a tail for good measure."
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It was everything I expected it to be. Namely, incredibly, irreparably, and mind-numbingly boring. Except for that whole thing with the mermaid.
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The shrinks say we just weren't built for this, that there's something deeply routed in human psychology that cries out against living with the sky practically falling on you. They say that's why the Nutters live the way they do.
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That was, and always had been, the story of their relationship. John knew about Ben. You don't miss something like that when you've known each other since preschool.
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Well, we called them "bees," anyway. Not particularly imaginative, but what would you call an eight-foot tall bug-like insect with black and yellow stripes, and wings?
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So anyway, we've all had those days when nothing goes right. Well, Joe Schmoe here just happened to be in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.
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Oh, sure, you can chop it off, but then it throws off the whole balance bioinsert, and you end up like a damn drunken squirrel on New Year's Eve while you're doing an EVA. Not good.
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All that bull about happy elves. Well, it's just so much propaganda. The truth is
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Eliza. Some higher being, some God, deity, whatever, has a sense of humor. George Bernard Shaw would probably be laughing hisdead, dusty butt off if he were here to see this.
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How could this have happened... again?