Oh, look! One of my very few Ai creations, from before I knew any better.
Note, this is an open-ended post.
12-13-25 (552 words. 3-minute read)
NOTE- this is a fictional, free-form write. An uncalled-for RANT. Writing without doubling back, except to stomp on Spellcheck. It’s rash and has no purpose or deep meaning. It’s for no reason at all. But it’s kinda fun to do when there’s nothing to return to anyway…
Honestly, I did make some minor changes to a few clauses, but only after failing to make my self-imposed midnight deadline, and also after the first few efforts to publish on WardPress failed. Let’s see what happens now…
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WordStress is always prying, wanting to know every little thing about me, categorize it, and then share it with the world. It’s as if it’s their business to catalog every little thing about me. These daily questions are a slow, sly, secret interrogation.
All of this data collection is for the Master of All, Ai. The goal of Ai is basically just to improve the cotton gin. Disign it to gather every last scrap of humanity’s hope and joy, rip what little individuality that’s left within, and take away what we once thought as self. What was us, what will soon be remnants a decimated species. Codify us. Take our essence, our souls, our beliefs, and whatever shitty little bit of dignity we might possibly have left, toss it all into a multitrillion-dollar blender, mix it with it every last drop of fresh water in the world, and then switch on every generator and turn that mother on! Can’t you just wait!
Oh, what joy, for every girl and boy, to think and be finally and ultimately so happy, so safe, and saved! Don’t forget saved! Where might we all be without being saved? No hope of visiting heaven without pressing ‘save’.
Ain’t no rest stops twixt here and there. No ports to karma, no extra lives, and no bonus round between Ai and Narvana. Keep us saved in boxes of tickytak typing weird foreign code to feed the machine. The future is so certain, the past no longer dear. We’re living this life for all that it is, simply bate on the hook
Oh, wait… What was the prompt again? Oh, yeah! First day of doing someone, no, of doing something. I wrote about that summer of forty-two person before. That’s right, I remember now. I’ve written about it so many times, and so often, so many times it’s the same prompt I’ve written about here before.
Even my shrink is tired of hearing it. She quit me. She wouldn’t even let me talk about her after three years of therapy. That’s why I got into WordStress. It’s a much cheaper way to bitch and still have no one care about what I say, because nobody listens. It’s just like the real world, only without a handy neighborhood twelve-step program and that bit about keeping track of how many days it’s been. It’s been fucking sixty-two years. Enough already, who cares? Leave us alone. They can’t take much more!
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Well, then, also this is a diversion, and escape, and inside ruse. You see, it seems I’m struggling with at least five unfinished stories, and never enough time to jump into them, as well as plenty of excuses, most of which amount to starting new, fresh pieces. And those pieces are only the stories.
-dp- (532)
For what it’s worth, I found this clever and compelling.
Thank you, Ms. The less I have to think while writing, the better. I’ve been working on this Easter Break story, and another about a guy who sends a homeless guy off to fix his bike. The problem I have is that when I know how the story will end, I lose interest in it. I began this blog to break away from poetry and complete all of the loose ended stories I’ve gathered over the years. Problem is, I fail at finishing the old stuff and keep not finishing new. I could do with having some discipline. And, of course, thanks for reading torncorner.com.