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This is embarrassing to say, but the guy riding the modded motorcycle is my brother.
 
I wonder where everyone else is these days. :ordercourt:
 
I didn't want to participate in an evaluation of my coworkers, but I didn't have a choice.
 
I'm writing a paper about the differences between the mature female brain and the mature male brain.
 

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A given mission, mechanical assault, manufactured devotion.
Red eyes, an upside-down form. Even the twisted shape was made to be that way.
No matter how cruel the slaughter, worse than a demon's,
or how gentle the kindness, greater than an angel's,
a machine has neither will nor madness—only code, and a few bugs.
So why, then, does it feel so unbearably sad?