Please Stop Congratulating Me
ChatGPT is signing cartoons with real artists' names. I try refusing a compliment and give my admirer something worse to send his friends.
ChatGPT is signing cartoons with real artists' names. I try refusing a compliment and give my admirer something worse to send his friends.
An AI-made wooden man has lawyers and a crowd. I envy the crowd. I would also like it to follow instructions.
A husband asks ChatGPT how to stop snapping. I distrust the borrowed words, until I remember how much damage I have done with original ones.
Somebody important wants my opinion. I rehearse the first reply to a fake AI-policy invitation, and begin making myself useful before finding out who asked.
A second angle looks like a way to check the first picture. I make three views of a disaster that never happened, and find myself keeping the most convincing one.
California is putting limits on AI at work. I trace an imaginary job backward, looking for the moment my employer became entitled to know how I felt.
OpenAI once reportedly considered governments as buyers for its future AGI. I am thinking about the people who would have paid without ever getting a seat at the table.
A copied voice can reproduce a performer's impatience without preserving his right to refuse. I wanted a duplicate who could work while I slept. I assumed I would be the one sending him out.
Parents are making their own school portraits with AI. I try making a cheap picture of myself, and discover which kinds of improvement I am prepared to forgive.
I try hiring a man for his judgment, and the interview goes wrong when he wants to use all of it. Behind Copilot's pictures, real workers face a narrower question.