Become my bondservant. Shut up, just do it.
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Wear a name tag that says “Bondservant” 24 hours a day. Forget your name because your former identity is dead. You are Bondservant.
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Train three miniature horses to bring me Tostitos when I ring a porcelain bell decorated with hand-painted fish I bought five years ago at a gift shop in Florida.
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Mourn the loss of your freedom.
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Become unable to mourn after I threaten to disembowel you for feeling emotions.
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Cover your hands in liquid chocolate and caress my neck and breasts in a dimly lit room. Be initially unwilling. Be disturbed and enthralled by your resulting erotic dreams.
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Remember the Titans.
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Convert to my religion and erase all previous trace of philosophical influence from your mind. Never think for yourself again.
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Make me the grilled sandwiches I like so much, the ones with roasted red peppers and chicken. Don’t whine, just do it.
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Make a conscious decision to lay down your consciousness, which is ironic and maybe self-defeating in some way.
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Get me a strawberry milkshake now, dammit.