6. 20120620: robot, aid

A sexdroid. I got her used, an older model that had not yet escaped the uncanny valley. Her female form is fleshier than the current trends advocate. Huge titties. Her coiffed platinum blonde hair and red-painted lips evoke a far bygone era.

It's not really to my tastes, but it was the best I could afford with the all the money I had left.

She came dressed in a five-piece naughty nurse outfit: crop top, micro mini, right shoe, left shoe, and cap. No bra. No panties.

Under the unflinching gaze of the naughty nurse, perhaps made stern by her posture - standing with feet apart and arms akimbo - I penned my final note and signed it with a flourish. I folded it up and stuffed it into the half-full bottle of my prescription heart medication.

I had stopped taking my pills, weeks prior, in anticipation.

I tucked my message in a bottle in the tight space of the droid's cleavage, whereupon the sensors there set gears in motion. The walls of the cleavage began to undulate, sucking the bottle down and out.

The pills rattled as the bottle hit the floor with a clatter.

I spent the better part of the next half hour figuring out how to shut off the titty chute. At the end of it, my message in a bottle was secured snugly between the two ample breasts.

I got naked and, using my pile of neatly folded clothing as a head rest, I laid myself on the hardwood floor in the middle of the empty living room. Repossessed. Everything repoed.

And so I was mounted. Reverse cowgirl.

My wife will come find me in the morning. I told her I would sign the divorce papers.

Contrary to the professional she is masquerading as, she will not be compelled to administer aid, call the pimp, or even scream at the director when this shit goes down. She will preserve my final tableau, bumping and grinding over my dead body, rhythmically on repeat, completing the scene, uncanny like a cinemagraph.

To the list of other pieces inspired by random words.