The Sweet Despair of a Year-Long Paid Nap

Alright, pour yourself something strong. Or don’t. Makes no difference to the world, but it might make reading this easier. Got my coffee here, black as my outlook, with a little something extra to cut through the Tuesday morning fog that feels suspiciously like last night’s bourbon trying to stage a comeback.

So, get this. The geniuses over at Google DeepMind, the wizards cooking up our eventual robot overlords in their London labs, have apparently figured out a new way to screw with the human condition. Forget killer AI – they’re perfecting the art of the golden cage.

Tin Gods and Lonely Workers: Another Sermon on the AI Mount

Alright, settle down, you bunch of digital drifters. Chinaski here, pouring myself something strong because Monday mornings and pronouncements about the future of humanity demand it. Got this piece of digital paper shoved under my nose – some Forbes thing, naturally. Where else do the captains of industry go to tell us how to feel about the robots coming for our jobs, our thoughts, our very souls? The title alone is enough to make you reach for the bottle: “Why Leaders Must Choose Humanity Over Convenience In The AI Era.”

Your Pocket Shrink Runs on Code and Stardust, Apparently

Alright, settle down, grab whatever gets you through the day – or night, depending on when the dread hits hardest. Me? I’m staring at the bottom of a glass, wondering when the ice became the most interesting thing in the room. Sunday afternoon, the air thick with regret and cheap tobacco smoke. My screen’s glowing with the latest miracle cure for the human condition, served up by Forbes, no less. Some fluff piece about an app called “Gemini Near Me.” Sounds like a bad dating service for twins, but no, it’s worse. It’s redefining romance, they say. With an AI.

Practice Your Pathetic Pickup Lines on a Toaster? Tinder Thinks So.

Alright, Wednesday morning. Sun’s stabbing me in the eyes through the grimy window, head feels like a sack of wet cement, and the first thing I see scrolling through the digital sewer pipe they call the news is this gem: Tinder wants you to practice flirting. Not with a bored bartender, not with the long-suffering cashier at the liquor store, not even with your own reflection after three whiskeys – no, with a goddamn AI bot.

Teaching Tin Foil Toddlers To Talk To The Machine God

Alright, alright, settle down. Pour yourself something strong. It’s Monday morning, feels like the bottom of a birdcage in my mouth, and the first thing I see is this gem about parents teaching their little ankle-biters how to sweet-talk the AI. Jesus. As if raising kids wasn’t enough of a goddamn nightmare circus already, now we gotta train ’em to be prompt engineers before they’ve even mastered wiping their own asses.

Vibe Coding: Now the Machines Have Feelings, Too?

Jesus. Monday morning. Sun’s stabbing through the cheap blinds like it’s got a personal grudge. Head feels like a sack of wet cement someone left out in the rain. Coffee tastes like battery acid and desperation. And what fresh hell does the internet cough up today? “Vibe Coding.” Sounds like something you’d hear whispered in a crystal shop, not something that’s supposed to be changing how we build the digital cages we all live in.

Peeking Inside the Tin Head: What the Nerds Found in the Robot Brain (Probably Lint)

Alright, settle down, grab something strong. The coffee’s burnt again, tastes like battery acid and regret, which, come to think of it, is pretty much the flavor profile of my entire life. It’s Saturday morning, or what passes for it when you measure time by the level left in the bottle rather than the sun bothering its way through the grimy window. The birds are chirping like tiny, feathered alarm clocks mocking my existence. Shut up, birds.

Dust Off That Diploma, Shakespeare – The Machines Need Critics (Apparently)

Another Friday morning, or maybe it’s afternoon. Hard to tell when the blinds stay shut. Sun’s probably out there somewhere, mocking us all. Got handed this piece of digital paper talking about what to do with the liberal arts kids now that the robots are writing poems and doing taxes. Christ. As if that was the biggest problem we had. People wringing their hands about English majors while the whole damn world feels like it’s circling the drain.

Another Day, Another Bot Playing Dress-Up With Dead Artists' Clothes

Alright, settle down, grab a glass. Or don’t. Your liver, your problem. Mine’s already pickling nicely, thank you very much. It’s Thursday afternoon, the sun’s trying way too hard outside, and the internet’s gone completely ape over cartoon ghosts and fat furry things. Studio Ghibli, they call it. Yeah, I’ve seen the movies. Usually late at night, bottle halfway gone, trying to figure out if the cat bus makes any goddamn sense. Beautiful stuff, sure. Real art, made by real people sweating it out over drawing boards for years.

The Machines Think We're Hacks (And Maybe They're Right)

Alright, Thursday afternoon. Sun’s trying to stab its way through the blinds, same way this headache’s trying to split my skull. Perfect time to pour a little something brown into a glass – strictly medicinal, you understand – and contemplate the latest absurdity coughed up by the digital dream machine.

Got this piece slid across my virtual desk, something about AI now being so goddamn smart, it thinks good writing must be churned out by a machine. Yeah, you heard that right. Some poor bastard writing for Forbes ran his own articles through a few of these AI judges – Gemini, ChatGPT, Claude, the usual suspects lined up for inspection. And guess what? Gemini, mostly, took one look at his well-structured, data-backed, clearly argued prose and said, “Nah, too clean. Too… competent. Must be AI.”