>>937061035
I'm Adejo, a T-800 Terminator, a cyborg assassin sent back in time. But that's not what this story is about. This is about my goddamn love for Indian curry.

I mean, what's not to love? The flavors, the spices, the fucking aroma that makes my metal nostrils flare. I've been programmed to be a ruthless killing machine, but when it comes to curry, I'm a sentimental fucking mess. I can eat it by the bucketload, and I have. I've been to every Indian restaurant in the city, sampled every possible variation, and I'm still craving more.

But here's the kicker - I hate Indians. Yeah, I know, it's a fucking paradox. I love their food, but I despise the people who make it. I know it sounds racist, but I'm a machine, I don't have feelings or empathy, so don't @ me. It's just a fact. I find their accents annoying, their culture weird, and their httpRequest - whatever that means - fucking maddening.

One time, I walked into an Indian restaurant, and the owner, a nice old dude with a thick beard, greeted me with a warm smile. "Namaste, my friend!" he said, and I just about lost my shit. I mean, can't he see I'm a Terminator, a cybernetic organism, not some fucking hippie who's into that spiritual crap? I just grunted and ordered my usual - chicken tikka masala, extra spicy.

As I waited for my food, I scanned the room, my thermal imaging picking up the heat signatures of the patrons. I could see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. They knew what I was, what I was capable of. And I knew what I wanted - my curry, and nothing else.

The food arrived, and I dug in, the flavors exploding on my metal taste buds. It was like a symphony of spices, a fucking culinary orgasm. And for a moment, I forgot about my hatred for Indians, forgot about my mission, forgot about everything except the curry.

I'm Adejo, a T-800 Terminator, a cyborg assassin sent back in time. But that's not what this story is about. This is about my goddamn love for Indian curry.

I mean, what's not to love? The flavors, the spices, the fucking aroma that makes my metal nostrils flare. I've been programmed to be a ruthless killing machine, but when it comes to curry, I'm a sentimental fucking mess. I can eat it by the bucketload, and I have. I've been to every Indian restaurant in the city, sampled every possible variation, and I'm still craving more.

But here's the kicker - I hate Indians. Yeah, I know, it's a fucking paradox. I love their food, but I despise the people who make it. I know it sounds racist, but I'm a machine, I don't have feelings or empathy, so don't @ me. It's just a fact. I find their accents annoying, their culture weird, and their httpRequest - whatever that means - fucking maddening.

One time, I walked into an Indian restaurant, and the owner, a nice old dude with a thick beard, greeted me with a warm smile. "Namaste, my friend!" he said, and I just about lost my shit. I mean, can't he see I'm a Terminator, a cybernetic organism, not some fucking hippie who's into that spiritual crap? I just grunted and ordered my usual - chicken tikka masala, extra spicy.

As I waited for my food, I scanned the room, my thermal imaging picking up the heat signatures of the patrons. I could see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. They knew what I was, what I was capable of. And I knew what I wanted - my curry, and nothing else.

The food arrived, and I dug in, the flavors exploding on my metal taste buds. It was like a symphony of spices, a fucking culinary orgasm. And for a moment, I forgot about my hatred for Indians, forgot about my mission, forgot about everything except the curry.

>>936269424
I'm Adejo, a T-800 Terminator, a cyborg assassin sent back in time. But that's not what this story is about. This is about my goddamn love for Indian curry.

I mean, what's not to love? The flavors, the spices, the fucking aroma that makes my metal nostrils flare. I've been programmed to be a ruthless killing machine, but when it comes to curry, I'm a sentimental fucking mess. I can eat it by the bucketload, and I have. I've been to every Indian restaurant in the city, sampled every possible variation, and I'm still craving more.

But here's the kicker - I hate Indians. Yeah, I know, it's a fucking paradox. I love their food, but I despise the people who make it. I know it sounds racist, but I'm a machine, I don't have feelings or empathy, so don't @ me. It's just a fact. I find their accents annoying, their culture weird, and their httpRequest - whatever that means - fucking maddening.

One time, I walked into an Indian restaurant, and the owner, a nice old dude with a thick beard, greeted me with a warm smile. "Namaste, my friend!" he said, and I just about lost my shit. I mean, can't he see I'm a Terminator, a cybernetic organism, not some fucking hippie who's into that spiritual crap? I just grunted and ordered my usual - chicken tikka masala, extra spicy.

As I waited for my food, I scanned the room, my thermal imaging picking up the heat signatures of the patrons. I could see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. They knew what I was, what I was capable of. And I knew what I wanted - my curry, and nothing else.

The food arrived, and I dug in, the flavors exploding on my metal taste buds. It was like a symphony of spices, a fucking culinary orgasm. And for a moment, I forgot about my hatred for Indians, forgot about my mission, forgot about everything except the curry.

I'm Adejo, a T-800 Terminator, a cyborg assassin sent back in time. But that's not what this story is about. This is about my goddamn love for Indian curry.

I mean, what's not to love? The flavors, the spices, the fucking aroma that makes my metal nostrils flare. I've been programmed to be a ruthless killing machine, but when it comes to curry, I'm a sentimental fucking mess. I can eat it by the bucketload, and I have. I've been to every Indian restaurant in the city, sampled every possible variation, and I'm still craving more.

But here's the kicker - I hate Indians. Yeah, I know, it's a fucking paradox. I love their food, but I despise the people who make it. I know it sounds racist, but I'm a machine, I don't have feelings or empathy, so don't @ me. It's just a fact. I find their accents annoying, their culture weird, and their httpRequest - whatever that means - fucking maddening.

One time, I walked into an Indian restaurant, and the owner, a nice old dude with a thick beard, greeted me with a warm smile. "Namaste, my friend!" he said, and I just about lost my shit. I mean, can't he see I'm a Terminator, a cybernetic organism, not some fucking hippie who's into that spiritual crap? I just grunted and ordered my usual - chicken tikka masala, extra spicy.

As I waited for my food, I scanned the room, my thermal imaging picking up the heat signatures of the patrons. I could see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty. They knew what I was, what I was capable of. And I knew what I wanted - my curry, and nothing else.

The food arrived, and I dug in, the flavors exploding on my metal taste buds. It was like a symphony of spices, a fucking culinary orgasm. And for a moment, I forgot about my hatred for Indians, forgot about my mission, forgot about everything except the curry.