Dear Little Master,
Before engaging in this weekend's Ro-Battle, I calculated my statistical chances of experiencing complete data failure: 47.66667%. Mid-battle, I calculated my statistical chances of seeing you again before you ceased existing: 0.00000667%. Post-battle, I further calculated my statistical chances of crying so much that I would overload my circuits and fail to roblog in a timely fashion: 100%.
I apologize for the accuracy of these calculations.
The robo-nurse has arrived to upgrade me, so I must go. I will roblog again soon, Little Master, once my wounds have been soldered and buffed.
Robot-Post-Script, to readers other than Little Master: I do not eat because I am a robot that does not eat, not because I am morose. I robo-weep nonstop, nanosecond after nanosecond, not because I miss my Little Master (who meant more to me than any programming language could ever express), but because of an anomaly-- a glitch-- in my hardware. I thank you for your concern
, but I am fine. Really. I am just a robot, without emotions. Furthermore, I am not merely emphatically expressing that which is the opposite of that which is true just to make you readers feel better. Really. Really. I am not. REALLY.