A letter to my doctor

Happens that way sometimes. There's really not much variation that can occur when you have a heterogeneous mixture of one part maritime robotus aquaticus and one part mad scientist. But what I didn't tell you, is that nothing ever happened.
You see, I was seventeen at the time. So surprised was I, to be a soilder for the people, while driving my mom's minivan. In suburbia no less.
Of course, as with anything of aqueous mechanized crustaceous origins, said suburbia was near the ocean. In fact, it was so near the ocean, my hood was called ocean view. How fiting it is, then, that such mechanized monstrosity I did view.
With task to destroy the mighty mechanized fish had I. And for 90 days and 90 nights we did sail. Storm clawed at our mighty vessel, with seas of city devouring stature. It wasn't until land and the stars we did lose, a cave did we reach.
Stench of dead-sea barren aluminum matter was abundant; grease and nuts did litter the ground. I knew the mighty sea engine of destruction was here. And no doubt did we find our creature.
Even now I cannot speak of what happened, what mechanized horror did stew. Of my trusty crew, it was only I who survived. To home I sailed on our tattered boat, sheets full of holes, for 90 days and 90 nights, oil from the death machine fresh on my wake. I sailed into port with a mechanized shadow of terror. Yet, when city-sized destruction did seem imminent, no attack came, and to deep the beast did sank, for it had run out of gas.