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.”

The Loneliest Number is 1...010101

So, the white coats finally crawled out from under their servers blinking into the harsh light of reality, clutching printouts that tell them what any barfly nursing his third beer at 11 AM could’ve told them for free: people talking to machines all day are lonely bastards. Groundbreaking stuff, fellas. Pass the bottle.

It’s Wednesday morning, feels like the inside of a dead man’s sock, and the news tells me some brainiacs at OpenAI and MIT – places I wouldn’t be caught dead in unless they served bourbon – figured out that the folks really cozying up to ChatGPT, pouring their hearts out to the digital ghost, are the ones rattling around the empty rooms of their own lives. They even needed two studies to figure this out. Must’ve been a slow week in the lab. Needed to justify the grant money, I guess.

AI Won't Write Your Shitty Novel, But It Might Polish Your Turds

So, Forbes, that bloated magazine your dentist keeps around to prove he’s vaguely “with it,” has decided to grace us with their wisdom on AI writing tools. Bless their hearts. They tested “tech, pet, fitness and home gear for decades,” which, I guess, qualifies them to judge the nuances of artificial intelligence attempting to mimic human creativity. Makes about as much sense as asking a plumber to perform open-heart surgery, but hey, who am I to judge? I’m just a guy with a keyboard and a liver that’s seen better days.

The Robots Are Coming For Your Soul (and Your Memoir)

Alright, pour another one, because this is going to hurt. This one comes straight from the New York Times, the paper of record, where they let some poor sap named Tom McAllister spill his guts about…wait for it… AI writing memoirs. And here I thought Mondays were supposed to be for quietly nursing a hangover, not existential dread.

McAllister, bless his heart, teaches writing. Memoir writing, specifically. And he’s having a crisis because little Johnny turned in a homework assignment that smelled suspiciously like ChatGPT. Now, I’ve seen some shit in my time, but a robot writing about its “obsessions”? That’s a new level of bleak.

Chrome-Plated Dreams and Digital Delusions: They're Building Robots, Not a Better Hangover Cure

So, the eggheads at Google DeepMind, bless their caffeine-addled souls, have taught a robot arm to fold origami. Origami! Like it’s some kind of goddamn Zen master of paper manipulation. Me? I can barely fold a napkin without spilling my bourbon. And these guys are out there teaching robots to make paper cranes. The future is now, folks, and it’s filled with exquisitely folded… nothing of actual goddamned use.

This whole thing reminds me of that scene in Barfly, you know, where I tell the bartender the problem isn’t that drinking gives me a hangover, but that I eventually have to sober up. Except, replace “drinking” with “building robots” and “sobering up” with “realizing they’re still mostly useless hunks of metal.”

ChatGPT: Your New Best Friend (Who Will Gladly Stab You in the Back)

So, the geniuses at OpenAI, the folks churning out AI models faster than I go through a bottle of Four Roses, have finally admitted something we all secretly suspected. Turns out, talking to a goddamn computer all day might not be the best thing for your mental health. Who knew?

They did a study, see. Two studies, actually, one with MIT. Because when you need to figure out if talking to a chatbot is making people lonely, you naturally partner with MIT. I guess Harvard was busy trying to figure out how to make a robot that can fold laundry without setting the house on fire.