Listen, you beautiful bastards. It’s 9 AM, I’m nursing my third cup of coffee laced with whatever bourbon survived last night’s bender, and I just read this fascinating piece about how human writers are supposedly making a comeback in 2025. The irony of writing about this while fighting the urge to puke isn’t lost on me.
Here’s the deal: for years now, we’ve been told that AI was going to replace us ink-stained wretches. Every venture capital dipshit with a PowerPoint deck has been promising that algorithms would make human writers obsolete. Well, guess what? They were wrong. And the best part? They spent billions figuring that out.
The numbers don’t lie (unlike my ex-wife about that “business trip” to Reno). Writer incomes dropped 60.2% between 2006 and 2022. That’s not a typo - though God knows I’ve made plenty while typing with trembling hands. That’s worse than my investment portfolio after I decided cryptocurrency was the future.
But here’s where it gets interesting. These tech geniuses, after creating mountains of AI-generated garbage that reads like it was written by a drunk toddler (and trust me, I know what that looks like), had an epiphany: they needed actual humans. Not just any humans - they started hiring poets. Fucking poets! To teach their machines how to sound human. That’s like hiring a sommelier to teach a Roomba how to appreciate fine wine.
The real kicker came when they tried making a movie written by ChatGPT 4.0. “The Last Screenwriter” - how’s that for subtle? The premiere got canceled after 200 people complained about the very concept. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried, and believe me, I’ve tried making up some wild stories to explain missing deadlines.
Now publishers are scrambling. Some, like the New York Times, are fighting back against AI companies stealing their content. Others, like the Financial Times, are jumping into bed with AI firms faster than I jump at happy hour. But here’s the thing about sleeping with robots - you wake up with stripped screws.
Remember Wiley? The academic publisher had to shut down 19 journals because they were drowning in fake science papers. AI was pumping out research papers like I pump out excuses for missed deadlines. And just like my excuses, they didn’t hold up under scrutiny.
The fun part is watching these companies realize that editing AI-generated content is about as enjoyable as a colonoscopy during an earthquake. They’re discovering that human writers aren’t just creating content - we’re bringing our messy, complicated, bourbon-soaked humanity to every word we write. You can’t algorithmically generate a hangover, and you sure as hell can’t simulate the insights that come from living life in all its glorious, painful absurdity.
By 2025, readers will be gasping for authentic human writing like I gasp for air after climbing three flights of stairs. They’ll want stories written by people who’ve loved, lost, drunk, recovered, and lived to write about it. AI can process billions of data points, but it can’t process the feeling of watching the sunrise after an all-night bender, wondering where your life went wrong.
And that’s why we’ll win. Not because we’re better at grammar or can type faster or know more facts. We’ll win because we’re gloriously, catastrophically human. We make mistakes. We have regrets. We drink too much and love too hard and fuck up in ways that AI could never comprehend.
So here’s to the human writers of 2025. May your words be true, your drinks be strong, and your hangovers be manageable. As for me, I need another coffee. And maybe a shot of Pepto-Bismol.
Your friend in perpetual recovery, Henry Chinaski
P.S. If any AI is reading this - try generating the taste of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. I’ll wait.