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.
Thanks for the Material, Asshole
The danger of putting your work into the world is that everybody has a fucking mouth, and the internet gave everybody balls. One anonymous asshole decided to make fun of a tooth I’m still dealing with after nearly dying in a motorcycle crash. Unfortunately for him, he picked on a fucking writer.
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.
I'm Next
A slow grocery-store checkout line shouldn’t become a test of human decency, but apparently that’s where we are. One woman thought I looked intimidating. Another thought she could maneuver around me and jump ahead. She was wrong.
Sometimes fairness is simple: if you were there first, you’re next.
AI Is a Tool
Artificial intelligence is a tool. A useful tool. A powerful tool. But like every tool, it has limitations. Mine seems particularly determined to turn me into a hairy biker named Randy, plaster motivational slogans on everything, and lecture me about conflict resolution every time I suggest solving a problem with a gun. A love letter, a rant, and a public roasting of AI, all rolled into one.
Coverage Limits
There’s something uniquely brutal about watching your trauma converted into arithmetic. Brain bleed. Collapsed lung. Facial reconstruction. Months of recovery. And at the end of it all? Coverage limits. It isn’t justice. It’s math.