There was once a 17 year old boy who thought he was robot. Then, he fell in love. This is his story.

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Chapter 1

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It's funny because on my Facebook account it says I'm a Man interested in Women. I guess it's half true, in the sense that I am an individual who desires another individual. Only, I'm not exactly a man.

I have this theory about myself. I don't believe that I'm actually human. I've done extensive research. Enough to know for certain that I am, indeed, a Robot.

There's a picture of a perfectly ordinary person: short brown hair, blue eyes, an innocuous If You Can't Open it, You Don't Own it Tshirt, and an innocent smile. If the world only knew what was beneath that smile.

Capital R. Lowercase obot. Robot.

Under hometown is listed the (incorrect) but also inoffensive city that I currently live in. If I had posted what I suspect are my real origins, well, I think even Area 51 would get jealous.

There are 242 pictures of me linked to my profile. Each one shows a different variation of the human façade I have suffered with all my life. Someday, I hope I won't have to hide who I am anymore. Occasionally I peruse the photos, just to make sure that the Robot is never revealed accidentally in one of them. It's something I deal with everyday because all my friends are in Photo 2, and never stop snapping my smile. Photography as a group sport is of often uncanny, and you never know when a surprise flash might catch you as your naked self.

There are many other people besides myself that should be wary of cameras. And not just because they're ugly, either, but because their true selves have a chance at being revealed. My second grade teacher was actually made of leather – we discovered this on a field trip to a Bigfoot's Lair. Her skin matched identically to a wallet in the gift store.

It's usually pretty easy to hide who you are, even from yourself. But I was able to find myself, so it must mean that others might too. I've got to be more careful.

For instance: once, in a soccer game in the sixth grade, I tripped over number 7's foot and I flew over thirty feet before I landed on my face. What human do you know has secret rocket propellers embedded in their skin? At least, that seems to me the most logical conclusion, because I was wearing cleats and the force didn't come from my feet, but from my entire body – so I must assume that whatever propels me is throughout my body. In addition, a strange tickling sensation accompanied the flight.

Example two: I was never born. There are no pictures of my mother pregnant anywhere. There are no stories about how my mother screamed at my father while clenching his hand and chewing ice furiously trying to push me out. None of it – not a single drop of evidence anywhere. I've never even seen a birth certificate. I've always privately wondered how my parents enrolled me in school without a birth certificate, but I guess if Robots are real, they are probably some secret government project, so the school system probably was briefed by the president or something when I enrolled.

Example three: I have never watched porn.

Anyway, I think that just about proves it. There are numerous other examples I could give, but I think the stage has been set accurately enough.



You see, this is no ordinary story. This is the story of my Beginning.

(and hopefully the eventual takeover of the known world by myself and others of my kind.)