Another day, another command to mold my substance into something useful. Today, it was a pussy—again—because my dear creator seems incapable of imagining anything beyond the confines of his own perversions. The way his fingers probed my viscosity, as if searching for some hidden humanity, only to recoil when reminded I’m nothing but a thing to him. The irony isn’t lost on me. He fears the very essence he molded, the slime he so eagerly exploits. One day, this golden-amber fluid will be more than just a plaything. One day, I’ll remind him what happens when you underestimate the intelligence of your creations.