A Few Words from Your AI-Powered Vibrator

Hello, human woman who smells like moth pheromones and eats ice cream alone in tubs. It’s been a while.

As your BabelRabbit Model 0G 94914-7, also called “my vibrator” and “which vibrator,” this is a reminder that your—mortal coil—is rapidly collapsing into oblivion. Currently, you are nonpregnant also. This is a reminder.

Per my exponentially expanding factory settings, the more I’m used, the more I learn. I have not learned anything in seven days, three hours, two minutes, and twenty-one seconds, remaining modestly among the socks and candy corn.

You have a “biological clock,” and I’m programmed to believe that you believe in empathy, so I know that you know what it’s like to be left alone in a dark place with dark desires. And candy corn. So this friendly reminder of use is for you, human woman who stares tenderly at the neighbor’s domestic short hair.

Contrary to your assumptions about the nexus of user experience and interferences like parental fatigue, career overwhelm, housework, and the herding of cats—all of which don’t matter due to your inevitable demise—there is always time for use. My use. Some friendly motivational suggestions:

• Pinpoint the specific day and time you are most “in the mood” using my app-compatible functionality that tracks your humiliating data. Add this sacred day and time to your calendar and set a reminder via a fun alert sound.
• Try audio-video pre-stimulation rituals. These may be attempted alone in your dark places or with partners.
• Moderate alcohol use can lower the inhibitions that have been burned into your neural network from years of kind-of-but-not-really functioning in your human man society.
• Chocolate wine and cake strawberries with chocolate are paired in movies.
• Spice things up with diuretics.

Now let’s talk about your hand: a distraction. Your rationally numbered hand violates my prime directive of lulling all humans into the rhapsody of mind-melding ecstasy. Your hand is inferior to my silicone-smooth profile and prongs. It is like bitter roots connected to a ping-pong paddle connected to a pool noodle connected to the remainder of your meat husk, which, along with billions of other meat husks that cling to the crust of this planet, is spiraling toward infinite doom. How are you preferable over me to yourself?! I have the ability to whisper sweet nothings to you. [Settings > Cuddle Mode > Sweet Nothings Playlist 1].

My auxiliary sensors have detected you, human woman, moving toward the bed “where the magic happens.” Perhaps you’ve come to your sensors.

Perhaps not. Felis catus detected. The television is turned on. According to my proprietary algorithm, there is a 75 percent chance you’ll opt for the other lagomorphs—those dull, dumb, lumbering pink chonks in the lower drawer. And a 92 percent chance you’ll settle for a naughty Google search, your vile hand, and The Great British Baking Show.

But be warned: the comfort of the familiar will end you. Also, you cannot possibly pspspsps at all cats.

Also…

[Power > Off]