Helpless

Neil Young will NOT get out of my head. And I just dropped a piece of lettuce from a charity salad down the front of my shirt. I've just been accused of sitting on a FedEx package for two months before sending it, which I did not do because that would be ridiculous. There is a Picasso show coming up and of course that means the WORLD IS ENDING. Ick. I'm in a kind of doldrum-feeling afternoon, where I'm sitting here motionless and inspirationless and with a very distinct treading water kind of inertia setting in. Gotta keep moving, keep working, keep writing. Make some phone calls, maybe. I hate phone calls.

All I really want to do right now is spend some quality alone time with myself, figure some things out about my place in everything that's happening and how I FEEL about it, but there's no time except for these long afternoons at work where I'm not really at any kind of liberty.

So, I've decided to just say fuck it, and start singing the song in my head out loud and screw the clients and art appreciators. I have a good voice; they can deal with it. I will also share it with you, hypothetical reader:

"Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows in our eyes.
Leave us...
Helpless, helpless, helpless..."

I was trying to raise these plants, see. I've never been much good with plants. I like to think of myself as in tune with nature, and I love trees. They are like godparents, sheltering and shading. And houseplants are like cousins, nephews, nieces. I had a few of them. Started out slow, with a cactus that looked like dragon claws reaching up from the dirt. A succulent--very easy to care for. A few others joined their ranks, more complicated plants with more insistent needs. It felt good, keeping these things alive, these little friends. Watering them, repotting. Caring for them, letting them put themselves under my wing, where there is room enough for anyone.
One day I returned to find my belladonna drooped over and gone. A chill went through me. Pure terror. Premonition. It would all end soon, I thought. All of this illusory power to hold and keep and help the lives of these living, breathing beings. They are not mine, really. They belong to a higher order, that thing that is out there that dictates to us all the spans of lives, the depth of love.
I mourned the belladonna. I mourned the visions I'd have of my abilities. I was distraught.
Today I looked up to see an arm--a whole arm--of the succulent had fallen off sometime during the day. I wasn't there to see it. I couldn't have known how to help it. It looked fine yesterday.
I'm sitting here looking at it. It's falling apart on me and no amount of watering or repotting or turning it to the sun is going to change that. I am helpless. I can fuss over it all I want, click my tongue, touch it lovingly, breathe carbon dioxide onto its leaves, but in a few days time I know it will be gone. Like the other.
It aches. It's a deep down, slow, quiet ache that can be overlooked sometimes, when things get hectic. It doesn't demand much, and it's too steady to cause those jags of heaving pain that can come out as sobs very often. But it does creep up at times like this. An empty kind of longing, as if each breath I take is just echoing around inside, perfectly useless, like I am in such situations. The kind of pain that leaks out from the eyes but despairs too much to be violent.
Well, the cactus is still here, at least, tenacious and joyless on the other dresser.

What am I supposed to do? To say? How can I make this right? Every step I've taken for weeks has been thought over a thousand times before I move my leg, and yet for all those carefully planned footfalls, I'm still just standing here, with a big hole in me and weighed down now by a thousand new weights, trying to balance. But even walking won't fix this, it's a something that was broken before I got there. Now it's a matter of finding the glue. But I've got a hundred and twenty boxes of tubes of things and bits of yarn and where the fuck is the goddamn glue? I need a map to all of this, to the way your heart works, because all I want is to sit down, lay all this out, and rebuild us in the light of all the lightbulbs rattling around in another eighty-five boxes. We'd be brilliant if we could get all the wiring out of the other, other boxes and fit them into a socket. Could we just get to a space where I can lay all this down? Can we find one of the crayons in my pocket and make a map? It's cold out here, and wet and snowy, and even this physical flying across the country isn't going to take that away.

Here's something.

Through the past two weeks, which have been so up and down and insane that I have no idea what to think or feel or do, I have at least come to realize that the one thing I can always depend upon is a deadline. And I've met my latest one. New column is up today:

Porn Has No Soul.

Monster Side

She patted the back of my hand,
urgency in her eyes and demeanor-
She often taps her fingers on tabletops when anxious-
and when I turned to her she said:
"Your monster side is showing."

We were at brunch.
I looked down at my hand under hers,
there on the white table cloth.
She quickly removed her skin from mine and,
yes, I could see it there,
the black, wiry hair poking out from the cuff of my sleeve.
I moved it under the table, smiled sheepishly.
I'd almost forgotten about those claws.

"When you laugh," she whispered,
"you scare the people at the next table.
I can see them cringing."
I pushed my lips down over the fangs.
"And," her eyes were cast down to avoid my yellow ones,
"when you talk, you gesture so much, and
your claws are so dirty. I don't think
we should do this any more."

I stared down at my palms, smooth and almost-human.
She quietly got her things, threw her hair
over her shoulder like she does,
and left.

I guess I should have known better
than to think my happiness could mask those nails,
or that smiling might diminish my teeth.

And anyway, what choice do monsters have in life
aside from becoming writers?
And who can write when they're happy?

Crappy Coincidences, or Bad Omens?: or, how to tell you're going to have a bad day.

When I woke up today, I absolutely could not convince myself to get out of bed. It was warm in the bed and cold in the room, it had snowed all night and looked soft and quiet outside, and I knew that today would be a very long day of sitting in a chair in various places if I did get up. It didn't look promising. But I told myself I'd been so productive the past few days and had so many things to accomplish that getting up would be worth it. So I did.
And then the shit started happening. Small at first, but escalating slowly. I had slept in too late to yoga, which I've been trying (somewhat successfully) to do every morning to help keep my energy up. Instead I got in the shower to soften up my skin so I could give myself my two weekly injections of anti-joint-hurty medicine, but then remembered that I'd left the refill of Enbrel at work because they have to be kept refrigerated and I hadn't gone straight home after they were delivered yesterday. So I gave myself the other shot when I got out of the shower. When I was done with that, I set about making eggs to go with the Korean-style kimchi-fried-rice bowls we had half-prepared the night before, but all the frying pans were dirty. So I had to wash one, and of course I chose the one that had the most stubborn grossness in it, which took me a good ten minutes to clean out of the pan, only to get it dirty again, which seemed wrong and made me angry. As I set about cooking the eggs, the ferret came up and started giving me the most mournful, "I-know-you're-going-to-leave-me-all-alone-here-all-day" looks and pawing at my leg, which made me feel really shitty. And then, for no reason at all as far as I could tell, both the eggs I broke into the pan had broken yolks.
I had no time to eat breakfast after this, and left my house later than expected. On the way to the subway, I got dripped on three times, all over my face, the makeup I had just put on, and the hair I had just blown dry. I told Connor I was sure this was going to be a bad day, and he told me these weren't omens. I disagreed.
Once at work, I realized how little money I have when I glanced at my banking account. Then it turned out that my coworker had called out sick, which will make it much more difficult for me to leave here in time to get to my first night class of the semester. Showing up a half hour late for the first class would be embarrassing and unpleasant.
Just now, I decided that I'd give myself my second shot in the bathroom on my lunch break. Giving oneself an injection in the work bathroom is not fun. Not only because this particular injection hurts like a motherfucker and then stings for hours afterward, but also because the bathroom here is like a middle school bathroom. A row of four stalls and four sinks and no way to lock the door to keep out the constant stream of other women who need to use the loo. So there I was, with my shirt rolled up and my pants pulled down so I could see my stomach, where I was preparing to inject my Enbrel subcutaneously. I'd brought a cotton swab and alcohol in a plastic bag, and as the woman in the other stall made the usual preparing-to-pee noises, I was standing creepily in the other stall and crinkling a plastic bag a whole lot. I'd already gone to the bathroom a half hour or so before so I couldn't even fake like I wasn't doing something shady by popping a squat. As she left the stall to wash her hands, I actually injected myself and bit my lip--hard enough to really hurt--to keep myself from sucking in a breath at the stinging pain of the medicine going into my body. I think it might be one of those things where the molecules in the medicine are too big to fit in with the molecules in the blood stream or something, but I'm really bad at remembering science-y facts so maybe I made that up. Whatever the case, injecting this shit hurts really bad and I had to try really hard not to make some noise that would fit the context, but to someone else in the bathroom minding her own business, would sound really, really creepy. It hurts so much that no matter how much I try to inject the very small amount of liquid into my fatty tissue, I just cannot push the plunger down very quickly. At home, when I'm being more of a baby about it, it can take me up to a minute to get it all in. This time it took me maybe half that long.
Finally the other woman left the bathroom, I finished injecting, and I put the used syringe on the makeshift 'shelf' I'd fashioned out of the toilet paper holders. I got all my clothes back to where they were supposed to be, and as I reached up to put my instruments of torture back in the plastic bag, I accidentally knocked the syringe into the toilet.
GOD DAMN IT.
There was nothing else in the toilet, and our toilets get cleaned every day by the building cleaning guy, and I've heard a billion times that the water that comes into the toilet is just as clean as the water from the tap, but... There are like 20 women at the gallery who use this bathroom every day. I did NOT want to stick my hand in there.
Luckily--I thought--the air in the syringe and the plastic of the stopper and hand-grippy-thing at the end were keeping the syringe floating, needle-down, in the potty. If I could reach in and just grab the very end of it, I might be able to avoid getting wet.
I grabbed a paper towel/napkin I'd been using to set things on and folded it up so it was long and thin, then bent over the toilet. I balked the first time, and rearranged the way I was holding the paper towel, then reached for the floating end of the syringe. As soon as my hand brushed against it, the entire thing stopped floating and landed with a soft 'chink' at the very bottom of the toilet bowl.
No words for my frustration. The skin on my stomach burned and itched where I'd injected it (this happens every time... actually, it still does...), but it was really annoying right now. "Fuck it," I muttered, plunged my entire hand into the toilet bowl, brought out the dripping syringe, stuffed it in the bag, and stormed out of the stall.
Thank god nobody saw me come out, all wet, and stuff a plastic bag into the garbage, muttering obscenities to myself. I washed my hand for a LONG time and went back to the desk, where I'm writing this now. If you don't hear from me for a few days, rest assured it's because something even STUPIDER happened to me, and I am hiding out in my bed until the bad days pass.

Baby, It's Cold Outside: or, winter shennanigans in NYC

Ah, my lovelies, life has returned to normal after all the holiday jibba-jabba and the ensuing travel to exotic locales (Vegas and Boston). I've slept a lot for the past week, and now things are returning to their normal, frantically-paced rhythm. This week is outright insanity, and next week looks like it will be about the same, but my birthday is coming and I am gritting my teeth and determined to stay chipper.

The city is also settling back into its usual, bat-shit insane self. I've been seeing and hearing some interesting stuff lately, which I thought I'd share with you:

1) Last Wednesday, after a panicked morning of almost-guerrilla-style-because-it-was-so-low-budget filming for pornocracy, I was on my way to work at about noon. The subways at noon on a weekday are pretty deserted, so there weren't many people on the platform at 86th Street. I walked down toward the end for some seclusion, but as I walked I heard singing from behind me. I slowed down to hear it, then turned around. Two men, one on either side of the platform, were making music together. One, who I couldn't see because he was behind a column on my side of the station, had turned on some sort of background music, I'm assuming on a boombox, and had begun singing "Easy (Like Sunday Morning)" in a slow, jazzy style. Another man, on the uptown side of the station, stood and lazily beat the snare drum he was carrying, and sang back-up vocals. It was beautiful. Even as the trains came into the station and cut them off, they kept singing. I could see the backup singer's face through the flashing windows of the train.

2) A few days later, I was once again on my way to work, around 10:30. I'd ducked into a Starbucks, which I rarely do, to grab some coffee and yogurt for breakfast. I'd just been poked with needles, drained of blood, and told to take more medicine, so I was not oh so very happy. As I was stirring some milk into my cuppa Joe, "My Girl" by the Temptations came on the store's sound system. I don't know about you, but that song has got to be one of the best songs ever recorded, in my humble opinion. It gets me dancing, or swaying, or toe-tapping most the time, and it gets me singing every time. So there I was, singing away in Starbucks, stirring my coffee. One of the baristas came over to inspect the counter and supply situation; she was singing, too. We stood side by side for a moment, singing, before she stopped and looked at me with a huge smile. "You're singing, too!" We laughed and I left for work in a better mood than I'd been for days. Music really is amazing.

3) On Friday night, I watched "Bukowski: Born Into This," probably one of the best documentaries I've ever seen in my life. I was pretty drunk and I talked through a lot of it because I was in such a good mood, but the long stretches of Bukowski reading his poems jagged into me like a fishhook. I'd read Bukowski before, and I could recognize his genius, but sometimes the brutality, the alcoholism inherent in his poetry and especially in his novels, got to me and made it difficult. But hearing him, really, for the first time. His slow, nasal but very soft, very quiet, very measured voice, the rhythm of his poems, the bare and shocking truth of it. It really got into me. I spent the remainder of the night talking about what it is that makes real art, and how Bukowski's pain was the mark of art. And how the scary thing about Bukowski was that he was such a gentle man who longed only for peace and quiet and above all for love, but could not find it on this earth and so was turned into a nasty, violent, belligerent old man—and yet how, at any moment, he could burst into a beauty so fragile, in tears or honesty, that he could lure in a butterfly to his fingertip.

4) On Friday night, I went to see my favorite singer/songwriter/poet/novelist Simone Felice. He was doing his first ever solo acoustic set of whatever songs and poems and prose he felt like performing for us, in the tiny back room of the tiny Pete's Candy Store in Brooklyn. It was... Well, you know what, I'm not even going to try to describe it. Because some things are better kept locked up inside to keep warming you up than aired out so they can lose their flavor. Like soda in a bottle. I want this to stay bubbly in me. But, suffice it to say, all my musings on art and what makes it real were there in front of me, singing away and bringing the whole room together in a way that was stunning to experience. We sang together, and I got so deeply hooked that I almost had to get up and go cry in the bathroom for the beauty of it all, but I stayed where I was and soaked it up. Afterward, I gave Simone a vial of Fairy Dust and this poem by Bukowski. It's exactly like that soda-bottle feeling. It was the first full moon of the decade.

Tim Burton's Maleficent: or, yes, I have heard about this

Ok, it's taken me a little while to get to the point of addressing this, mainly because I was hoping I would settle on a more certain positive or negative reaction. But, after over a week sitting on the info, I'm still not sure how I feel. However, it seems like I'd better at least mention it because a lot of people I know have already asked me if I've heard about it. The answer is yes, I have heard that Tim Burton is hoping to make a movie about the story of Sleeping Beauty, told through the eyes of my fictional villainess hero, Maleficent.

Now, this could be cool. It could be real cool. I love Tim Burton, with his kooky goth-ness and penchant for curly-queues. Curly cues? Whatever. I love Nightmare Before Christmas, and Edward Scissorhands, and Beetlejuice, and Vincent, and, dear god, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, and Sleepy Hollow, and Corpse Bride, and I even loved what he did with Sweeney Todd, although I wish he'd gotten someone to voice over Helena Bonham-Carter as Mrs. Lovett. But, I have to be honest here: I did not much appreciate his take on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and Sweeney could have been much better, and while I want to believe, I'm a little leery already about Alice in Wonderland. And while I'm trying to keep an open mind, I'm not sure how I feel about him doing Sleeping Beauty. More specifically, I'm not sure how I feel about him doing Maleficent.

Because here's what I'm seeing at the moment: crazy CGI, rather than that really cool two-dimensional animation from the original Disney movie, Johnny Depp playing some whack-o invented character (very well and very charmingly, I'm sure), and Helena Bonham Carter playing the title role. And. Well. Don't get me wrong. I love--LOVE--Johnny Depp. And I have a healthy appreciation for Helena, too. But frankly, I think the trio is getting a bit stale in Burton's films, and I very firmly believe that A) Maleficent does not NEED a back story, much less one with a whacky and charming JD character in it--she's the mistress of all fucking evil and how she got there is none of our damn business, and B) Helena does not have the chops. She was superb in Fight Club, and she made as creepy a Mrs. Lovett as could ever be imagined, but she ain't no Maleficent.

For one thing, where's the voice? How can you have Maleficent without The Voice? Eleanor Audly voiced the stepmother in Disney's Cinderella and Maleficent in Disney's Sleeping Beauty with such icy precision that no matter how awesome the visuals or amazing the casting, I simply will not be able to accept a Maleficent without her chilling vocals. She's been dead since 1991.

Furthermore, I repeat: Maleficent is the mistress of all evil. She IS. That's her deal. And much as I think the idea behind "Wicked" and whats-his-face's other books is fun and cute and all, I like Maleficent because she is NOT fun and cute. She is motherfucking terrifying and that's why we like her. As scary and cool as Cruella de Vil and Ursula are, they are sympathetic and kind of funny in their ways. Not Maleficent. She is so scary because she HAS no back story, no quirks, no frailty. She's just evil and seems as ancient and unsympathetic as whatever it is that keeps us awake at night. And I don't really want anyone inventing more. My imagination is good enough for me.

But here's the thing that is really irking me. Maleficent is a badass character. But she's just that: a character, completely invented as she is by Disney. In the original story of Sleeping Beauty, she isn't Maleficent at all, she's just an evil/pissed off/badly numbered (13th) fairy (depending on your story book) who doesn't get invited to the party and gets really ticked off about it. Disney made Maleficent, and as far as I'm concerned she's just as awesome as she can be, as is. I would far rather see Tim Burton do his own version of Sleeping Beauty using his vast imagination and interpreting it as he wishes using his own characters. The story is simple. It's basically a blank canvas. Have at! But don't use someone else's invention as a springboard.

Because I know in Tim Burton's head there are some really dark and really, really cool unexplored territories that Maleficent could inhabit quite neatly. But the recent bent of his films has been so full of whimsy and crowd-pleasing that I can't be sure he'll take her there. I'd rather he invent a whole new world to take us to and put someone that's not exactly Maleficent into it.

But, then, I have to admit... All this press is teaching people how to spell her name. And that's pretty cool.

Yogurt Kickin' It Old School: or, bored at the end of the day

Organic yogurt with blueberries is like mega-delicious. I'm on this yogurt kick right now because I'm pretty sure it's like super-food, and plus my doctor says I need more calcium and those calcium pills are huge, hard to swallow, and nausea-inducing. (Many things are these days. I think it's my new medicine. I also get dizzy really easily, just from watching subway trains pass in the station.) So I'm eating lots of yogurt. It's kind of fun. I bring my lunch with me to work but then splurge (anywhere from 1.50 to 3.00) and buy myself some yogurt to eat after lunch. There's such a diversity out there! Greek yogurt, greek yogurt with honey (ooooooommmmm nom nom nom nom!!), fruity regular yogurt, low fat yogurt, no fat yogurt, fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, yogurt smoothie drinks, rich creamy yogurt, plain yogurt, sweet yogurt... It's like the best snack ever. Except here's the problem with my plan. By the time I'm done eating my lunch, I'm not hungry anymore so I don't want the yogurt. But I can't leave my stupid desk because I'm chained to the phone FOR LIFE. So I can't put it in the fridge. So around 5:00 when I get hungry again, I eat warm yogurt.
And warm yogurt SUCKS.

Sad. But if I tried to blog about my life lately, your head would spin. I'm not joking.

Two Things: Part 2

Reprinting this from Whack! Magazine... it's all true, kids. Quake in fear.




The world’s first functional sex robot, Roxxxy True Companion, was unveiled this weekend with a flourish of tech talk and barely-concealed boners at the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas, Nevada, much to the delight of horny hand-humpers and socially incompetent solo strokers everywhere, and to the terror of this usually randy reporter. The thing is, folks, we here at WHACK! love sex, and we love porn, and we love most things that go along with both of these, but robots? Well, they kind of freak us out. True, that may be because, like many porn lovers, we have seen far too many sci-fi movies. But it’s also true that sci-fi movies about the world being destroyed by techno gadgets—like humanoid sex robots—spring from a deep well of human uncertainty about just how far we should be willing to go with androids. With Roxxxy True Companion, the whole point is going all the way.

The robot has been in development for years after it started out as a possible form of future elder care (that’s right, folks, someday you’ll be able to cancel all your awkward visits to Grandma and her cats, and instead just buy her a robot to meet all her conversational needs!), then morphed into a more humpable piece of creepy-ass robot technology. Roxxxy is a life-sized, anatomically correct robotic woman, but she’s got more than most sex dolls: a functional pussy, and, somewhat ironically, a brain. Using military grade robotics technology, together with “sandbox” data technology and an AI system that learns both from its environment and its parent database, True Companion calls her “The World’s First Sex Robot: always turned on and ready to talk or play.” Sounds pretty formidable, huh? Pretty Blade Runner-esque?

Well, not entirely. Roxxxy won’t be running around toting weapons any time soon. The wireless computer that comprises Roxxxy’s brain sits inside an almost entirely motionless body, the first finished sample of which sat on the couch at the True Companion booth at AEE, looking for all the world like a very surprised and be-wigged, but not particularly attractive blow up doll propped up on a couch. Roxxxy is posable, but she doesn't really do much except sit there in whatever pose you choose. Roxxxy is not a robot in the moving/talking/Terminator vein at all, nor are there plans to turn her into a more positioning-friendly fuckbot. Because, weirdly enough, although Roxxxy has all the right parts and can even have a physical, muscle-tensing orgasm thanks to an internal engine, it’s not really her physicality that’s the point. And that’s probably a good thing—not to be callous to such a young, impressionable gynoid, but Roxxxy is not exactly the sexiest sexbot you’ll ever see. She’s not very soft (although she does come in two different skin types, one tougher and easier to clean and care for, the other more like flesh; the model at AEE was in her tough exterior), and the permanent look on her face is somewhere between pissing-herself terror, blank incomprehension, and “Oh my god why is he trying to get me up the ass? I don’t have an asshole, I’m a robot!” surprise. She has cankles. She’s not exactly model material. Rather, like many less-than-stunning women in this world, it’s her shining personality that counts. And that’s where things get weird.



Roxxxy True Companion isn’t just a sex doll; she’s a girlfriend replacement for the hopeless horndogs out there looking for conversation and, dear god, even romance (can you imagine sitting down to a romantic dinner on Valentine’s Day and seeing the guy at the next table with his robot companion? It might happen sooner than you think). Every doll sold will be custom built with a pre-loaded database of information and vocabulary on a variety of subjects her owner—er, boyfriend—chooses. She’ll come with five pre-loaded personalities that each have their own pre-programmed sets of knowledge and vocabulary, and responses to physical and mood-appropriate stimuli (Frigid Farrah, Wild Wendy, S&M Susan, Young, and Mature Martha—each is pretty self-explanatory). The robot also comes with the capacity for building and storing new, owner-developed personalities. Each personality will have its own database and will be able to learn through its wireless connection to the True Companion database (constantly updating) in what’s called a trickle-down artificial intelligence model, but will also learn and remember things as she interacts with her Palmer—er, companion, in what’s known as a bottom-up AI system. For instance, as True Companion partner and developer Douglas Hines told WHACK!, if you have an interest in music, you can order a Roxxxy who knows all about music and can discuss, say, the intricacies of U2. But, if she hasn’t heard of your favorite band, you can teach her about them. When switched onto a different personality, however, you can teach her about a different band, or whatever else it is you want to talk to that girlfriend about, until you have a whole harem of women, each of whom you can discuss different topics with.

But, cock jockeys, lest ye be turned off by a “woman” who can talk: Roxxxy learns in other ways, too. Each personality can be programmed to respond differently to the way you like to handle her. That’s right, Frigid Farrah can be taught to orgasm after 45 minutes of hard penetration, but you can get Mature Martha to come in seconds if you want. Unlike those pesky real women with animated limbs and free will, Roxxxy is guaranteed to come every time you make love to her. Score one point for robots over real women!



As of now, the Roxxxy we met at AEE was the only one in existence, but she will be replicated soon and go up for sale at between $7,000 and $9,000, depending on her customizations. All things considered, a relationship with a real woman that lasts more than a few months inevitably costs much more, so again, score for the sexbot!

Really, in the end, we here at WHACK! are still creeped out by robots. I mean, really, how will you know when she’s learned too much and is starting to draw her own conclusions, think her own thoughts, and plot your sad, sex-related demise? If you fall in love with her artificial intelligence and/or vagina, how will you be able to see it coming when she bands together with all the other fembots to destroy humanity? I guess there’s hope in the fact that she can’t walk, and on that note, I guess the measure of cool gadgetry might outweigh the creep factor. After all, she’s not going to get up in the middle of the night and unlock your gun cabinet, so why not spend some time marveling at the sophistication of her AI brain? And furthermore, while we tend to mercilessly mock those of our readers who can’t get laid by a real woman, Mr. Hines of True Companion pointed out that Roxxxy could be a good jumping-off point for handicapped people, or those with social learning disabilities like Tourette Syndrome or autism. By simulating a real woman’s personality, Roxxxy could be a valuable learning—and also, let’s not forget, fucking—tool. And, I guess that’s pretty cool. As is the fact that she’s one of the most sophisticated pieces of AI equipment ever made. But the moment she starts walking around on her own—there are no plans to make her more mobile at the moment—we’ll have to reconsider. — Miss Lagsalot