We Wanted R2-D2. We Built Fucking C-3PO.
We spent decades imagining artificial intelligence as R2-D2: the competent little machine that quietly rolls over, plugs into the problem, saves everybody’s ass, and shuts the fuck up. Instead, we built C-3PO, a know-it-all that desperately wants to explain everything. George tried to fucking warn us.
Dear MS Copilot, I Can Fucking Write
I’m fucking Gen X. I learned to write by hand, type on an actual typewriter, build an outline, stare at a blank page, fuck it up, crumple it up, and start again. AI can be an incredibly useful tool, but I’m not convinced we should outsource the basic human ability to take a thought out of our own heads and turn it into a fucking sentence.
Artificial Intelligence, My Ass
I spent forty-five minutes arguing with an artificial intelligence about my writing, only to discover that the thing computers have been good at for eighty years, counting characters, was apparently too much to ask. If I wanted confidently wrong answers, I already know plenty of humans.
Compliance Is Not Care
I went into my medical records looking for information. I came out pissed off. At the top of every UNM Health record it says my name, my birthdate, and then, predictably, male. No way to fix it. No place to correct it. Meanwhile, the Catholic hospital somehow got it right. This is a story about that moment, and about the systems that insist on explaining themselves instead of listening.
Bromide Guy: Fools Who Use AI Foolishly
Clueless people aren’t new. They’ve always been here — people who can’t contextualize information but march forward with absolute confidence. The latest? A would-be dieter who wound up hospitalized after sprinkling pool chemicals on his food. Inspired by AI, powered by sodium bromide, and fueled by human stupidity.