a grand total of 0% of this is meant to be taken seriously, and as they say, it's all downhill from here.
Dear Diary:
Have been kidnapped by giant space robots from outer space. Given that sudden and unexpected turn of events would leave mother scandalized and members of school's science fiction club envious, have decided to place current emotional state somewhere in the range of pleasantly concerned. Would be v. offended otherwise, as was in the middle of an important project, but one of aforementioned robots is v. pretty, which makes up for things, almost.
Would like to note that pretty one is pretty in the same way that sharks are, or v. sharp knives, and so will still attempt to avoid out of concern for own well-being.
Am being kept on top of what am assuming is a table. Giant space robots did not presume to restrain me, assuming would not risk life and limb attempting to jump fifteen feet to floor. They are right, but will not admit this. May consider investing in grappling hook in future. Am not sure how practical grappling would be to transport, but will all be worth it if kidnappings become a trend. Am sincerely hoping kidnappings do not become a trend. Am very definitely hoping that failure to trend is not on account of my untimely death. Death by giant space robot is not worst possible way to go, but would be v. disappointing. Body would never be found. Mother would assume I have run off to other side of country to pursue career as starving artist. Science fiction club will jokingly assume alien capture; will never learn that they are right. V. sad. Science fiction club is mostly a bunch of tossers.
Current observations so far: table is grey. Walls also. Floor slightly darker shade but otherwise the same. V. many blinking lights in various corners w/ no clear purpose. Would love to have conversation w/ giant space robots' interior decorator. May have them design evil lair, in unlikely event that I ever acquire one. Will be sure to remind them to make it small enough. Grandiose palaces v. impressive but not v. practical when you cannot even reach the handle of your front door.
Hear sound of footsteps. Will report later, hopefully not posthumously.
Wonder how long I have actually been gone, since lack of windows makes it difficult to measure passage of time. Considered asking one of giant space robots, but decided against it. Mooks do not seem sort to possess timepieces. Do however possess v. spiffy purple paint job. Are all robots so stylish?
Would check phone, but phone is smarmy shitbasket and refuses to tell any time but 1: 25 AM at all hours. Should really get repaired. Later.
Have been informed that my pitiful human brain contains invaluable information, which is to be somehow extracted at a point in near future. Knew touching strange objects floating in the middle of woods was bad idea. Looking directly into strange light even worse idea. Will never touch anything again in case it turns out to be alien trap. That'll show them.
Giant space robots refuse to answer questions. Pretty one particularly pissy. Seems sort to benefit from anger management counselor. Did not attempt to offer services, as have no experience in field of psychology and also am not an idiot, I mean really. However, have managed to glean that pretty one is in charge, mostly. Spiffy purple mooks have flung about terms "commander" and "lord." Second appears to result in more positive, if incredibly smug, reaction. Will remember for use in future conversations, if any.
Am hoping that so-called extraction will not involve dissection. Do not fancy having guts spread out across fifteen-foot-high table for amusement of onlookers, particularly when said onlookers do not likely have guts of their own. Does not seem fair to do to me what future generations may not do to them in my final act of vengeance. Also, giant space robots do not seem sort to have anesthetic suitable for humans. Will try v. hard not to think about this fact. Will think about pretty one instead. Am beginning to wonder about stability of current mental state, on account of such intrusive thoughts and also fact that have not screamed at all within past several hours. Lack of panic v. concerning, esp. in face of potentially imminent death.
Am sure it will pop up later at suitably inconvenient time.
Wonder how robots feel about interspecies relationships.
Dear Diary:
Slept on table. Was v. cold and v. uncomfortable. Thrill of robot kidnapping beginning to lose its luster. Woke w/ taste of metal in mouth, found that had bitten tongue in sleep. Cannot fathom why. Hope giant space robots do not care about bloodstains. Considering they may dissect me, probably not. Wonder what color their blood is, provided they have any.
Table, floor, walls same color as yesterday. Am so bored. This is worse than mother's book club. Am going back to sleep. Will bleed on everything out of spite.
Woken by poking. Spiffy mooks notoriously absent, but pretty one returned and brought a friend, who apparently thinks nothing of prodding slumbering bipeds in their fleshy midsections on a whim. Am surprised was not skewered. Have slightly less degree of respect for pretty one's friend on account of this, but on account of him also being bit of a looker have decided to forgive.
Learned he is ship's medic and will be overseeing hypothetically delicate operation of picking apart my brain. Demanded details of information contained within, on account of if I am going to die horribly I may as well know reason why. Medic made smarmy remark about how if information was known, extraction would not be required, and that I should count myself lucky to even be part of what is bound to be recorded as a miracle of modern medical science. Felt v. miffed. Pretty one made several disparaging remarks before departure. Felt slightly less miffed.
Wonder how robots feel about polygamy.
Successfully engaged lone spiffy mook in brief conversation. Go me! Learned that pretty one is named Starscream, smarmy medic named Knockout. Will continue to refer to as pretty one and smarmy medic for now, on account of descriptors being infinitely more amusing than anything giant space robots might come up with. Am wondering how anyone with such ridiculous names can ever take themselves seriously. Am wondering whether someone decided Starscream's name before or after he spoke. Suspect latter. May be v. pretty but also had v. shrill voice. Oh well. Cannot all be perfect.
Spiffy mook did not explain much more, on account of being ever-so-slightly repulsed by my lack of metal plating. Have overheard self referred to as "fleshie" on more than on occasion. Do not relish the title but then again anything is better than Starscream.
Am beginning to feel v. hungry.
More later.