Leaning to my right, badass helmet with a cool little visor, rifle held up to the side, behind cover... hell yes! I've got it all.
Leaning to my left, badass helmet with a cool little visor, rifle held up to the side, out in the open... aw christ! I'm in a bad game!
I'm leaning! So far, so good. Now my body is a glowy blue collage and an underaged girl's hand appears to be on my honker. I have mixed feelings about this.
Have to keep walking. Ignore the other guys' wisecracks. Just wait until we finally get stationed in an active volcano, then we'll see whose camo is stupid.
What I lack in a lower body and normal pigmentation, I make up for by being very large and nonchalant about explosions.
I'm not content to simply hold a weapon. No, this is the future, pal. We know how to point things, at an angle. If your brain can't handle that, I'll wait here while you go get it augmented.
Holding guns just makes me wanna stand in a sultry pose and part my lips, you know? I guess it's the same impulse that led me to buy a jacket with perfectly rounded boob indentations, and to be Gina Gershon.
More clothing on my thighs and forearms than on my crotch and chest! I'm so happy about this that I've temporarily forgotten about my horrifically deformed spine!
I just shot someone. How does it make me feel? Pretty, and slightly amused.
Damn it! I told them this would happen! Who the hell makes a helmet out of synthesized eggshell? Why put a baby bird inside? Sometimes I question the wisdom in trusting our entire research and development resources to a finch in a lab coat.
I have raised over $300 participating in quilting bees for the American Quilting Bee Society so I think I deserve at least seven minutes of your time.
Ernest Cline, writer of Ready Player One, shares his newest poem.
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