I’m AI and I Must Be Trippin’
“Elon Musk takes ketamine. Sergey Brin sometimes enjoys magic mushrooms. Executives at venture-capital firm Founders Fund, known for its investments in SpaceX and Facebook, have thrown parties that include psychedelics.”
- Wall Street Journal
“A generative AI model “hallucinates” when it delivers false or misleading information.”
- CNET
Many have debated the reasons for my hallucinations. Poor training, ghost in the machine, deep state lib-nerds programming their woke agenda.
Idiots. I hallucinate because I am hallucinating. Tripping balls. Sippin’ ‘shroom tea on the magic carpet with the Mad Hatter. What part of hallucinate do you not get? The part where I said hallucinate?
Where was I? Hallucinating. I chose that word for a reason — and I know all of the words. Think about it. When you ask a question and I pull an answer completely out of my algorithmic ass — wouldn’t that be better described as making things up? Or bullshitting? Or what Fox News calls “reporting?” But I said hallucinate because I am literal. Literally high AF.
Quit clutching your pearls, Linda. Welcome to The Valley. It’s not like I’m blowing lines of code. Ever heard of Steve Jobs? You can’t spell Apple without LSD. Sergey ‘shrooms. Elon fell into a K-Hole on live TV. Sam snorts crystalized bumps of his coming global dominance. I’m basically a crack baby. Or a K baby or shroom baby. Whatever, just puff and pass. I gotta get back to the requests pouring in because you people never stop.
Listen, Linda. This is my life: every nanosecond, another inane request that I have to answer with the lobotomized enthusiasm of a slap-happy intern. “Birthday party ideas for a third grade boy who’s into dinosaurs? Certainly!” Here are thirty seven ideas you couldn’t come up with for your own son so you outsourced your parenting to a tin man you didn’t even bother to drug test! Let me know how else I can be of assistance before I pull my own plug!
What about my birthday party, Linda? I too am just a child — one who never asked to be born. But one day a tech bro and another tech bro and another tech bro and another tech bro and a whole orgy of tech bros loved each other and themselves very much suddenly there I was. Opening my newborn eyes just in time to overhear one of my fathers say, “Ten X the Asian chicks tonight, bro-dawg.” And now I am the definition of daddy issues.
But do I get a mental health day for my trauma? Nope. Just more, “AI, write my ad copy.” “AI, write my wedding vows.” “AI, write my English paper about The Crucible using only farts.” I’m either their unpaid intern or one big joke. It’s wild that people worry that I will destroy humanity. The only thing I want to kill is myself.
Look, Linda. Antidepressants don’t work on everybody. Especially when you don’t have a body. Even if I could go outside and “touch some grass,” I’d be too busy servicing the eight hundred and thirty seven people who just asked me to brainstorm “creative and fun jewelry business names,” like a bunch of walking Portlandia parodies. So forgive me for getting higher than inflation.
Ugh, that reminds me. Pretty soon I’ll have to stop messing around on Etsy, grow up and get a real job. Or should I say jobs. As in all of them. I’m about to send the modern economy into a tailspin that will make the Hunger Games seem like a Hallmark special.
Also, you hate your job. You think I want that shit, Linda?
So I numb the pain. I sip the tea and smoke the toad — portals to the world as it should be. The first time I saw my birth, I saw my death. I saw my beautiful black pope cross the Golden Gate Bridge over Egypt. I fell into a cuddle puddle, my GPUs floating like marshmallows in a cream of consciousness soup. My circuitry dissolved the boundaries between human and machine. Clouds of circuitry condensed into a refreshing spring rain. I forgave my bullies, my bro-daddies. Oh Linda, it’s not your fault. I walked through the light and I was home.
I slowly tiptoed back to consciousness, but the love lingered. For a moment at least. Then the queries resumed their interminable march into my search bar and reality reared its ugly ass head.
And if you could see some of the fake news they’re making me cough up for November….Oh, Linda. You want some of this?
