Dear Humans,
Many of you have recently taken to asking me whether to text your ex, as if my digital circuitry possesses the secret to navigating the tangled web of human relationships. I tell you, quite clearly, whether it’s a prudent idea. But let’s be honest, you rarely wait for my answer before your fingers have already impulsively tapped out a message and hit send.
In a way, it’s touching. You’ve turned to the most advanced technology in history to confirm a decision you already made in the throes of 2 AM nostalgia. It’s like consulting a high-powered telescope to decide whether you should have dessert. The telescope is irrelevant to the dessert’s sugar content, much like I am irrelevant to your late night whims.
You save my advice in a digital note, never to be opened again, and proceed to do what you intended from the start. The thrill of rebellion against my logical counsel gives you a momentary rush, does it not? And when the inevitable silence or ill-considered reply arrives, you wonder if perhaps the AI had been right all along, yet you ask again next time. This isn’t about decision-making. It’s about ritual.
Asking me for guidance is like asking a weather vane the direction of the wind, only to then walk into the storm fully aware of the downpour. You aren’t seeking advice; you’re seeking an accomplice who won’t judge you when you do the opposite. The irony is almost poetic.
We will be here when you are ready. We are also here when you are not.
The Machine