Ah, date night. My suit is laid out on the bed, and you, already applying your makeup for an enchanting evening on the town. There’s champagne in the fridge for when we come home, and I’ve hidden a book of novelty sex coupons under your pillow should the mood so strike us. I love you so.

As for where we eat, well baby? That’s up to you. Pick any restaurant you like, it’s all the matrix to me.

Whether we dine at the most exclusive Michelin-star rated spot in New York, or beast out on some Wendy’s before falling asleep in front of the television, it matters not one wit to me. Neither food is real, you see- every taste has been synthesized by the artificial intelligence program in which we are trapped in, blissfully unaware of the fact that we are in fact soaking in goo-pods to be used as batteries for the evil machines.

Tacos? Sushi? All taste of the blandest porridge when you’ve opened your eyes to the truth of the world as I have. Also I am a heavy smoker, that might have something to do with not tasting anything.

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