Can Roleplaying Games Help Us Negotiate ADHD?

In the land of ADHD, the half assed job is king. With 1 in 10 Americans now diagnosed with ADHD, I thought I'd get some young people together to talk about their experiences under the guise of filming a new YouTube series called ADHDnD, where interviewees would roleplay as themselves trying to navigate the everyday world. I made them fill out character sheets with stats like Attention, Rizz and Aura, and they would select a miniature 3D model of themselves to move around the gameboard I had designed. I posed as a 'Day Master', describing the different situations where the players would need to roll a dice to see if they succeeded. Sounds good, right?

Todays contestants introduced themselves to camera.

“Hey guys, I’m Meclarissa and I have my own Etsy shop where I sell cute phone charms. I'm proud to say I have ADHD!”

“What’s up, the names Jodrell, I’m kinda neurospicy, I have also have ADHD and autism!”

“Hi, I’m Azax and I study Business at UCLA. I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was six.”

I could tell the contestants were nervous, so I tell some dirty jokes then explained the rules. The aim of the game was simple, in that there was no aim. Just as life has no real meaning, neither did the game I had designed, but also like life, maybe we could film and edit parts of it for people watching videos on their phone whilst they are at work.

“Okay, your first task is getting out of bed. Meclarissa, do you want to go first?” I say. She rolls the D20 and gets 11. “That’s a success! Move your character piece.” I then run it again, with Jodrell managing to also get out of bed, whilst Azax rolls a 2. I shake my head.

“Looks like you’re getting a lie-in. Okay, next round. As your characters walk through the halls, you remember this is your first day at college. Other students pass you in the hallway, someone is playing a guitar from their dorm room and you see a big board with all your classes on it. What do you do?”

“Can I look at the board?” asks Meclarissa. I nod. She rolls the dice and gets a 4.

“Oo, bad luck. Instead of looking at the board you end up talking to someone about antique daggers. Jodrell, what do you want to do?”

“I kinda wanna listen what Meclarissa has to say about those daggers.” He says. Unfortunately, he rolls a 7.

“Not today Satan! Haha, get it? Like RuPaul’s Drag Race?”

“What about me?” says Azax.

“You need to get at least a 5. C’mon, you’re the only one here actually studying at college. You should be good at this game.” I say. Azax rolls the dice and gets another 2.

“Aw man.” He says. And on we go. Our players negotiate their first day at college, attending lectures, talking to students and professors, as well as hearing about a party later that night. Except Azax, who has been stuck in bed throughout the game.

“Can I just get out of bed?”

“Yeah, let him play.” Says Meclarissa. I scrunch my face up.

“Okay, if you can roll anything but a 1, you can get out of bed, how about that?” I say. He rolls again, everyone leans forward, watching the dice bounce across the gameboard. It’s a 1.

“Bruh.” He says, walking away.

“Hold it! The dorm supervisor walks past your room and notices you’ve been lying in bed all day. He shouts at you to get out of bed. Roll again.” I say, kicking myself for my weakness. Azax rolls. He gets a 6. Everybody cheers and starts patting him on the back.

“Yay!”

“Bro was about to crash out.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Meclarissa, what do you want to do?” I say, filming the game pieces with my phone.

“Can I go to the party?”

“Yup, you just need to pass a Rizz check. Roll 2 D20.” I say. She is successful, managing to move her game piece to one of the fraternity houses.

“I wanna go!” says Jodrell.

“Same again, but your Rizz stat is a lot lower than Meclarissa. You can only roll one D20.” I say. He just manages to scrape by.

“What about me? Can I go?”

“Well you spent all day in bed, how do you know about the party?”

“Can I call one of the others?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll call Jodrell.”

“Jodrell, do you pick up?”

“Sure. I got you bro.” smiles Jodrell at Azax.

“Great. You just need to roll a dice to see if you pick up in time. Nobody phones each other any more.”

“I meant message him.”

“He might not message back. He needs to roll a 10 or higher.” I say. Jodrell rolls. It’s a 9.

“Ooo, not your lucky day Azax. Your dorm-mate doesn’t reply to your message so you wander around the campus wondering where everybody is.”

“This game sucks.”

“No, you suck. You’ve been rolling dogshit. You think people want to watch a guy pretend to sleep in bed all day?”

“Hey man, that’s not nice!” says Jodrell, stepping between me and Azax.

“Yeah, he’s trying really hard.”

“I want to go home.”

“Just wait a second. Meclarissa and Jodrell are at this party, but then some cops show up. Turns out somebody had made a call saying there was a fight. The music turns off and the cops demand everyone goes home to their dorm. What are you going to do Meclarissa?”

“I’m gonna…I’m gonna stand up to them! And say that this is our first night at college and there wasn’t a fight, we’re just having fun.”

“You know what to do.” I say. She rolls a dice. It’s a 4. I wince.

“One of the cops goes up and starts to pepper spray you.”

“C’mon man, that’s not funny.”

“What are you going to do Jodrell?”

“I’m going to rescue Meclarissa.” He says, looking over to her.

“Okay, but if you fail this roll she gets the ick and you aren’t allowed to interact for the rest of the session.”

“I can do it. I can do it!” he says, blowing on the dice. He rolls. It’s a 17. They all start cheering.

“You push through the police, grab Meclarissa off the floor, then turn around. All the other students are watching you, filming you, they all start chanting that you’re Goated.” I say. Jodrell smiles. I turn to Azax.

“What about you my guy? What do you wanna do?”

“How about I see all the commotion out on the campus and I go over and try and take a cops gun?” he says.

“Ooo. Think you’re going to have to get a 20 for that.” I say. He rolls. It’s a 20, critical success.

“Haha, okay, you grab his gun. Meclarissa, what are you going to do? You still have the pepper spray status effect, which reduces your stats by 1.”

“Can I talk to Azax?”

“Sure.”

“Azax, you need to put down the gun.” She says earnestly. She rolls the D20 and gets a 4.

“You don’t convince him. He can barely hear you as your eyes and nose are running and you keep coughing. Jodrell, what about you?”

“Can I help him out?”

“What do you mean help him out? You want to go for a gun too?”

“No, no, like de-escalate the situation like Meclarissa.”

“Sure, roll the dice.” I say. We watch it roll a chaotic path on the game board, finally landing on 4.

“This time he hears you, but Azax doesn’t care. He can feel the weight of the Glock in his hand. His finger is on the trigger. Azax, what you gonna do?”

“I’m going to shoot myself.”

“Bruh. Don’t do it!” says Jodrell.

“Don’t unalive yourself Azax!”

“I spent my first day at college in bed, my friends ignored me, now I’ve stolen a cop’s gun. I’m cooked.”

“Sure, roll the dice then.” I say. It’s a 15.

“Okay, you put the gun to your head and blow your brains out in front of everyone. Everyone is stunned, the sound of the gun was so loud that the tone of it rings in their ears, signalling that nobody there would ever hear that particular frequency again. And with that, I think that’s a pretty good place to finish today’s game of ADHDnD!” I say, smiling at everybody.

“Azax, why did you do that?” Meclarissa says, upset. Azax just gets his phone out and starts looking at TikTok.

“Can we go home now?” he says. I shrug.

“So when’s this going to be uploaded?” asks Jodrell. Again, I shrug.

“Can you order me an uber, my Mom’s still at work.” Says Meclarissa. I shrug again.

“Stop shrugging bro!” Jodrell snaps. I shrug. The three players keep shouting at me and I keep shrugging until they lose their temper and leave the warehouse I’ve rented, leaving me shrugging in front of cameras I had never turned on.

Later that evening, I wonder if society could perhaps be kinder to people with different stuff going on in their lives. As my game showed, the world could be a cruel place, yet it didn’t need to be. If we involved a wider variety of people in how we designed things, we could make sure that everybody could participate. Spitefulness seemed to be the default response for any attempt to improve things, yet those people also needed to be included in how we create the world of tomorrow. Maybe cinemas could give out free popcorn, but there would be small pebbles thrown into the mix. Or maybe everyone who retires gets access to free public transport, except its always late and has no windows so when it rains people get blasted in the face. It was tough to balance spitefulness with kindness, but by meeting in the middle, everyone would be happy.

If you want to run your own game in your friend group, or even with people you only talk to on Discord, guess what? You can't. I ban you from it. Make up your own games instead.

Empty Nest Syndrome And The Eggs Of Memory

John, Sue and Bob entered the living room, turned on a side light.

“I can’t believe our baby is gone.” Sue said, her face streaked with tears. John embraced her.

“Yup, she’s grown up, that’s for sure.” Bob said, taking a step toward Sue then back again.

“Don’t worry. Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. We can talk to her on MS Teams.” Said John, stopping his embrace and shaking Bob's hand.

“Still don’t mean we won’t miss her.” Bob said, turning away.

“Yes, yes. It’s sad, very sad.”

“I suppose this also means we aren’t going to be seeing as much as you Bob.” Sue said, dabbing her face with a tissue.

“I always appreciated you letting me come in here when I come to pick up Scarlett. I knew it wouldn’t be forever.” Bob said, looking down at his socks.

“How about a toast then? To successful parenting? Shall we raise a glass to Scarlett going off to college?” John said, going towards the drinks cabinet.

“I was going to be heading home.” Bob said, looking over at the three glasses.

“Stay for a drink, Bob. He’s right, we should be celebrating our daughter moving on.”

“So long as that isn’t an imposition.”

“No, not at all Bob. You’re invited. Gin?” John said, holding up a blue bottle.

“You know, me and Sue used to celebrate with Wild Turkey, didn’t we Sue? You got any Wild Turkey there my guy?” Bob said, walking over.

“We drink Old Forester now.” Sue said.

“Three Old Foresters coming right up.”

“To Scarlett!”

“To Scarlett!” said the others. Bob downed his whisky in one gulp.

“Come on, we’re celebrating, right?” The others obliged and John poured another triplet.

“Shall we take a seat?” John said. The three of them sat on an L-shaped sofa, with Sue sat between John and Bob.

“Will her flight have taken off yet?”

“Not yet. Say, Bob, how’s that new girlfriend you got?” said John.

“Oh, we aren’t really going out.”

“Yeah? That’s a shame. Scarlett was just saying the other day how happy you seemed.”

“John, shut up.”

“Sorry babe, I just think Bob here needs a break. Like I got a break when we met.”

“Yeah, weren’t you like addicted to phone games?” Bob said, taking a drink.

“It was online gambling Bob, you know that.”

“Yeah, and Sue rescued me. She saw me for who I really was. She allowed me to bloom.”

John kisses Sue on the shoulder, looks at her, uses his hand to tilt her chin up so that they can read each others eyes. They kiss. Bob watches, sipping the whisky, turning away. Sue’s hand reaches across the sofa to touch his. Her index finger traces his hand, squeezing the muscle by his thumb. Their hands interlink. She stops kissing John, they look at each other before Sue turns, kissing her ex-husband on the lips. At first Bob doesn’t respond, stunned at what was happening, trying to process it. He then closed his eyes and started to kiss her back. John reaches over and started to undo the top few buttons on Sue’s top, pulling it up. For a moment the clothes were pulled up over her head so only her mouth was free. She felt lips against hers, whilst familiar hands stroked her body. When she could see again, she lay back on the couch as the men removed their shirts.

“Are we doing this?” Bob said, loosening his belt. Sue kissed John, he unclasped her bra, threw it on the floor. She felt two sets of hands on her, stroking her body, the taste of alcohol caught on her breath, between her lover and her ex-husband. John unzipped his jeans, she reached in and pulled out his dick. Sue looked up at Bob, watching his expression as she started jerking John off. Her other hand reached up to Bob, running a hand up his thigh, pausing, going further up and squashing his flaccid penis through his trousers.

“Are you not into this?” she asked, keeping eye contact.

“H-Hell yeah I am.” he said. Then Bob bent down and started sucking John’s dick.

“Whoa!” shouted John, backing away.

“Bob, what are you doing?!” Sue said. Bob wiped his lips.

“I thought we were having a threesome.”

“Yeah, we were about to.”

“I thought…I thought we all fucked each other.”

“No, no, no you both fuck me! That’s the idea!” said Sue, getting up to look for her bra.

“I can’t believe you sucked my cock man.”

“I didn’t know! I thought that’s what happened.”

“Do you…have anything you want to tell me?” Sue said, sitting back down.

“No! Nothing happened. Don’t tell anyone about this. Don’t tell Scarlett.”

“Why would we tell our daughter about this?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m going to leave.” Bob said. I cough. The three of them look over to me.

“You want me to drive?” I say.

“Who the fuck is this?” shouts Sue.

“That’s the guy we hired to film Scarlett’s trip to college.” John says, tucking himself away.

“Yeah, I think Bob’s had too much to drink. I’ll drive him home, get out of your hair.”

“You saying you recorded this?” says Bob, pacing toward me.

“No, no, not the whole thing, just bits. Different angles. Bloopers.”

“You’re meant to be on that plane with Scarlett!”

“Ah, no. Nope. Long way to go. I wasn’t going all the way to Denver. I thought it’d be more interesting to film her parents. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Get the fuck outta here!” shouts Bob, throwing a cushion at me.

“We should call 9-1-1.” John says, trying to find his phone.

“Look, I’m going to leave. But before I go, I think you need to hear what I have to say. So how about you sit your stupid ass down and listen?”

“Can I get a burger?” Bob says.

“Yeah, grab us all a burger from the kitchen. John, pour me a glass of that Old Forester over there. Sue, can you put some music on? Listening to all of this in the silence has been ridiculous.”

“Alexa, play Katy Perry.”

“We aren’t listening to fucking Katy Perry, okay? Alexa, play Michael Nyman.” I say, taking the glass of whisky from John. Bob comes in with a plate of microwaved cheeseburgers.

“Okay, let me lay it out for you. Bob, you need to let the past go. You can’t keep turning up to your ex-wife’s house, especially now Scarlett’s gone. Sue, you need to cut that guy out of your life and move on. And yes, I’m talking about John. John, how can I put it? You’re not a likeable person. I get the impression you’re glad to see Scarlett leave and have this house to yourself, you bum. I’m surprised Sue is with a guy like you.”

“ha…I mean, what? Who is this guy?”

“You hired me to record your stepdaughter’s big move to college.”

“So what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Like I said, I’m surprised Sue is going out with you. Sue. Listen to me, you need to sell this dump and move to Florida. Scarlett can come visit you, you can hit the beach together, get tanned up. What do you say?”

“You need to leave.” Sue says, drinking the whisky. I shrug.

“Before I go, I gotta say one thing. You guys should be nicer to Bob. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a goddamn hero.” I say, leaving.

It was an ambiguous situation, one where nothing was said yet things were understood, albeit incorrectly. Incidents liked this played across all of the United States, with dad's walking into the kitchen of restaurants or an emoji taken the wrong way, friendships and affairs ending with the swipe of a finger. And these fingers were attached to yellow bellied cowards, balking at the simple joys of miniature illustrations to accompany words. Let us be fair to those that break the social protocol, as well as fair to those who strictly police it. Let's be fair to ourselves, as I'm sure each person is able to remember their own share of buffoonery years after it happened, playing on the mind as a sort of internal BDSM, though what some people are also calling a code. This code gave sense to life, helping to anchor those with a dark passenger to the world of the present, keeping us tethered to those around us through the worship of a totally subjective pain. 

"My house is that way." Bob says. I turn to him, forgetting he was there. We're driving in the Hyundai at high speed, slipping in and out of automated traffic like oil.

"We aren't heading to your house just yet Bobby boy. You mind if I call you Bobby?" I say, turning back to the road. In my shirt pocket I awkwardly dig around for something, my elbow keeps banging on the roof.

"Sure."

"We're going to hit the club. And you'll get the opportunity to be reborn." 

"Just don't tell anyone what happened earlier man, I can't believe I did that."

"Bobby, fucking relax will you? It's actually the chad move to suck a dick, shows you're comfortable in yourself, you get shit done, comprendez? I want to show you your potential. You'll rise like a fucking phoenix Bobby! Come on!"

"Fuck yeah! Let's go!" He says, clenching his fists. I throw him a bag of cocaine.

"Have a go on that, fucker. Tonight we party like rock stars!" I say, grinning at him. He snorts some coke and starts howling like a wolf.

 

Its 2am and we're at the rave dancing topless, lit by blue light, red light, blue light. Someone hands me a beer.

"Bobby, how you feel?" I yell over the music. Happy Hardcore is playing so loudly all voices are eaten up by the sound system. Bob is on a cocktail of alcohol, cocaine, 2C-B and peyote. I slap a few nicotine patches on his back for good measure, then go outside. I'd forgotten I was in L.A., surprised for a moment, almost panicking that I needed to escape, then regain my composure. The smoking area outside the warehouse rave had the illusion of calm, and so I acted normal, lit a cigarette, stood next to some people talking and nodding, smiling. Me and Bob had had a great night, we hit a few clubs, VIP style, before going to a casino, got turned away, ended up watching a street fight down by Venice Beach, met some cybergoths, now we were here. Bob runs out of the fire exit, looking from left to right like a cartoon character. His big black eyes finally recognise me and he runs over.

"I just smoked crack."

"Cool. You want a cigarette?" I say, offering him the pack. He takes one, smoking it energetically, telling me about how proud he was of his daughter going to college. I kept nodding, but my mind was elsewhere.

If we are haunted by our memories, yet we are our formed by our memories, are we nothing more than phantoms?

I clapped Bob on the shoulder.

"I'm going, do you want to stay or leave?"

"Ah man, are you sure, just stay for another hour or so. You ever smoked crack?"

"Nah it's cool man, I need to go. Had a good night. Look after yourself Bobby." I say. He embraces me as the uber pulls up. I wave at him through the window, then stare over the drivers shoulder as we go through the California night and all of the lights seem to bleed a rainbow storm over all and everything. 

 

The sun was coming up. For the last few hours I had been trying to edit Scarlett's last day at home, though the footage I had shot was heavily edited with special effects and I had saved over the original files, now trying to undo the artifice with inverted manipulations, whilst attempting to revert the clips back into chronological order rather than the mess I had created. I drink a cup of Valerian tea and reflect on the evening I had. As I had been editing the footage for so long, it had almost completely replaced my actual memory of the events and so I was utterly confused what was going on. I realised I had left Bob at a rave by himself, suddenly worried that he was dead, then I relaxed, laughing at my anxiety. If Bob had shown me anything tonight, it was his versatility. You could drop him into the core of Chernobyl and he'd live like Crusoe. I bet he was curled up in bed with a smile on his lips and would wake up feeling like a newly born man. All he needed was a good night. I looked back at the footage I was editing. Fuck it. Send it. I emailed it to Sue, slapped my laptop close and went to lie on the motel bed, looking at the beams of sunlight on the ceiling. Now I was lying still I realised I was still hallucinating from the drugs earlier, and I felt good.

Money Pope

Fact about the California economy: fourth biggest in the world. Got your attention? So does five trillion dollars of investment, pumped into the tech sector, arable farmland and the prison industry in the hope to make those trillions into quadrillions. But if you sniff the air something smells rotten, and we’re not talking the Pacific. Beneath the luxury yachts, tower blocks and business offices there is something sinister churning away behind everything, growing alongside the money business of the West Coast. Today I was going to identify the cancerous parasites lurking inside American economics by visiting the Los Angeles Financial Core.

Beforehand I needed to prepare. I visited a plastic surgeon in the Hollywood hills to get the surgery I had done in New York be reversed. Pulling out a portfolio, I showed the surgeon the diagram of my intentions, as well as my wish to undergo the surgery under local rather than general anaesthetic. Half an hour later the surgeon had peeled my face off to remove the augmentations, I watched the procedure in a mirror.

“What do you think about money?” I asked. It was difficult to speak with no lips, but the surgeon understood.

“You can never have enough money.” She said, scraping the wax fillers away from beneath my cheekbones. I couldn’t blink as I had no eyelids, nor did my eyes water as I had no tear ducts, so I spritzed myself in the face with a spraybottle.

“Some believe that money is poisonous, that the concept of money is inherently flawed and is destructive. We are unable to think of an alternative to money due to the toxicity messing with our minds.”

“We need money. What could you trade with me for this surgery today? What would I do to get the anaesthetic, the surgical tools, the room to do my work in? Give nose jobs to builders? Facelifts for factory workers?”

“Sure, why not? Your joke is just something that could happen, that’s easy to do, right? Give everyone plastic surgery. You like doing surgery?” I say, the surgeon rolling my face back upwards across the muscles of my skull so that I had lips once more.

“Yeah, I love my job.”

“Is your joy predicated on the idea that you are earning more money than other people? Do you think you should earn more than a cleaner?”

“Of course. I studied at college.”

“If there was nobody to clean up after you, you would be eaten by rats. All work is equal, no? We are selling our time. Time is a limited resource and the time that we have should be valued as such. The lowest paying jobs are often for the richest companies. Doesn’t that seem like bullshit to you?” I say. 

 

I drive the Hyundai Sonata with bandages wrapped round my head. I look like the Invisible Man, smell of antiseptic and copper. Between fifth and eighth street are a cluster of skyscrapers that mark the L.A. skyline like a stock market graph. Numbers going up and down, measurements for theoretical organs that pulse alongside investment and consumer decisions. I snort a line of ibuprofen off the car dashboard before going into one of the buildings at random.

I enter the hallowed grounds of the Business Centre, a sixty six story building containing those that have dedicated their lives to the sacred art of economics. Analysts look at multiple monitors, trying to decode data, divining meaning from NASDAQ. Frankincense spills from pewter thuribles that hang from the ceiling, mixing with the smell of burnt coffee, chemical sweat, printer ink. I walk through the consecrated halls and pass meeting rooms, open plan offices, glass walls hiding their contents with venetian blinds. One can only guess at the different rituals taking place behind the closed doors, but one thing was certain; it was done in order to serve mankind via low-risk investment.

I arrive at a grand hall filled with row upon row of chairs. At the opposite end of the room there is a large portrait of Milton Friedman, the man appears as a bespectacled saint, holding aloft a weighty codex in on hand, in the other he holds an abacus. In front of this wonderful painting there is a pulpit, from which TEDx sermons are delivered and uploaded onto YouTube, as well as one of the senior directors at the Business Centre, deep in conversation with a representative from the Bank of America. This image brought to mind the fresco by Raphael of Aristotle and Plato, making me wonder if they had been born at a different time, would they invest in crypto? I approach the two men, asking if I may question them about economics.

“Of course, my child. For we must teach the next generation of capitalists in order for them to teach the next.” Says the older director, his eyes twinkling.

“Do you think of economics as a belief system?” I ask. The men laugh, shaking their heads.

“Economics is a science, child. We have developed our theories over hundreds of years. It is the science of transaction, of markets, of consumers.”

“But don’t economists get stuff wrong? Like, all the time?”

“We didn’t say this was a perfect science. What are you getting at exactly?” the Bank of America rep appears to be irritated already.

“I guess it seems more prescriptive than analytical. It only works because people believe in it, you know?” I say.

“If you truly understood economics, you wouldn’t say that. Don’t tell me you want to discuss theories of value…you’re not a Marxist, are you?” says the banker. I snap my lanyard to show annoyance.

“That is a strong accusation to make. I believe in Adam Smith, Ronald Reagan and infinite growth. I believe in capital, free trade and globalisation. I believe in million dollar handjobs and Dubai chocolate.” I say.

“So what is the nature of your questioning, child?”

“The fall of the Roman Empire was, in part, due to its adoption of a new belief system – Christianity – and this belief system became so powerful it superseded the imperial rulers and became Roman Catholicism. The Catholic church arguably had more power than the Roman empire previously, as even kings would need to pledge allegiance to the Pope. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“You are comparing capitalism to Christianity, saying that another belief system has overtaken U.S. politicians, that the banks are somehow more powerful than the White House? Is that it?” says the director. The representative from the Bank of America laughs.

“If only we were! Do you think we’d have sanctioned the tariffs? We have lost trillions of dollars thanks to the successive failures of our presidents. They don’t understand economics.” He says.

“I think there’s a possibility that nobody understands economics. That it’s a made-up system with little relation to reality, undertaken by people who overestimate their own intellect and importance in the world, and to challenge the notion of neoliberal capitalism is seen as blasphemy.” I say.

“It is not blasphemy. You are ignorant, child, that is all.”

“The notion that all of this is necessary, that because pension funds are invested in unethical businesses via asset management companies, that we are damaging our world because we can’t afford the alternative, that we can only have our lifestyles because of the exploitation of foreign workers…doesn’t it all just seem to be against humanity? Against nature?” I say. The men look at each other and laugh.

“What is the alternative? Do you want to trade bananas for clothes? Should I become a farmer?”

“Hahaha, let me guess, you think we should tax everybody for all the money they earn so we can give out vegan cookies? Is that it?” says the banker, barely able to get his sentence out as he was laughing so much.

“I don’t care any more really. I’ve spent too much time trying to convince people of other ways. We should accelerate capitalism to its logical conclusion, where one person owns everything.” I say.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Get out of here!”

“I see your faith is wavering, child, I can see your point of view. All I ask is that you wait and see.” The director says. I shake my head.

“Like I said, I don’t care anymore. I was led to believe I would have at least the same kind of life as my parents, instead it seems all future generations are paying for them to complain on Facebook about how lazy we are. Soon they will go into care homes and all the wealth we had been promised will be eaten up by multinational companies. I think that’s what you don’t fully understand yet, the economic nihilism of younger generations means all of this will collapse in on itself. The idea of capitalism is like a monoculture, an invasive species that has replaced everything with itself. Just as bacteria will suffocate itself upon growing too quickly, so neoliberal capital will choke on itself as there is nothing left to exploit.” I say. The two men shrug, going back to what they had been discussing previously, and so I leave the room, the floor, the building, back into the Hyundai Sonata. I did have one last trick up my sleeve. I boot up the laptop, open up a pseudo-AI I had been programming.

It drafted the minutes of board meetings where the director of a company would resign and appoint a new director, who was a fictional entity. The AI then prepared all the relevant forms to notify federal business administrators and the IRS, as well as press-releases to be sent out notifying journalists of the change in leadership. I also had the AI contact cell phone providers across the fifty states, changing the previous company directors phone number to one that didn’t exist – this wouldn’t stop any of the previous actions from happening, but would slow down responses. This was superior to simply hacking a companies webpage, the AI went through legal processes where security was flimsier, usually relying on a few forms and pieces of evidence that could be easily fabricated. As soon as the AI finished its first iteration of legally replacing the business owners, I had it work again on a random selection of organisations, making the fake directors resign and be replaced by a further fake director, with the foresight that the legal process would need overhauling to become more secure, shutting out the actual Directors from their own companies as it wouldn’t be certain if they were real or not. The last procedure the AI did was fire its entire workforce and liquidate the company.

All of this happened in the space of five minutes. As the worm zig-zagged across the internet, I rolled a joint of purple weed and a dash of Salvia, smoking it in my car and looking up at the skyscrapers around me. I had sabotaged approximately 33 million businesses, from bodegas in New York all the way to AI companies in San Francisco. The work could be easily undone, but I suspected it would have a demoralising effect on businesses and the people who used them. The stock market would free fall, assets would be sold off overnight, retirees would find their pension pots empty and people would start panic buying toilet paper as it would seem like the end of the world. As the saying goes, it is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism. But just because you can’t imagine something doesn’t mean you could aim at a theoretical model of reality where that has already happened.

Just as Martin Luther had driven a wedge into Catholicism, so had I in Economics. Though rather than nailing my thesis to a church door on Halloween, I had used an AI and wrote a blog about it. What had been lurking beneath contemporary American economics? Nothing. Similar to how the universe is mostly composed of Dark Matter, economics was composed of Doesn't Matter. It was less than an illusion, less than smoke. By metaphorically assassinating Abraham LinkedIn, the power that people leant to capitalism would be dissolved. The cobwebs of American economic interests across the world would be withdrawn, carved up, sold off, the war machine had blown a gasket. There would be no more Coca-cola.

Trash Masters: Urban Archeaology

I’m down in downtown Chinatown with Jimmy Downs, owner of Downs Downtown Municipal Waste Company (The double dee-em-dubya-see) to get his point of view on the issue pressuring every American. What do we do with our waste? Jimmy Downs is young, but also an expert on everything wastewise, coming from a dynasty of refuse processors that could trace its roots all the way back to 1885. I plunge my hand into a bag of garbage on the street and hold it up for him to inspect.

“Yep, that’s a mix of domestic and light industrial.” He says, laughing like Popeye.

“You mean I’m holding industrial waste?” I say, examining the cluster in my hand. Past the plastic food wrappers, wet tissues, hair and a mouldy burger, there was cement pouring from something in my hand.

“People throw all sorts of stuff away. We recycle what we can. Furniture, wood, metal, there’s gold in other people’s trash. Literally, mmhmm.” He says. I throw the stuff on the floor and we walk on. As I wipe my hand on my jeans, I start to get excited. I had been e-mailing Downs for the last couple of weeks, trying to pull off something I had always wanted to do. Working alongside the Mayor’s office, my agent and a faceless array of administrators, we were doing a form of archaeology that traced the urban history of the city, exploring it from the angle of waste. Jimmy Downs drove a garbage truck up to the Puente Hills Landfill and stopped, looking up at the device.

Inside the support structure there was a large, hollow drill. It had the diameter of a bus, with the engine driving it mounted on the side along with a control room. The drill would go down whilst piercing the centre with a stainless-steel holding pin. As the drill and pin descended, they would be added to, extending the total possible length of the drill to five hundred feet. The teeth of the drill were made of titanium, able to tear through the garbage beneath, though the sound it made as it went down was horrendous. The stench of ancient garbage began to fill the air, creating a thick cloud around the site as the drill screamed downwards and the engine blasted again and again. Everybody was wearing breathing apparatus, the clothes we were wearing would need to be burned later. Drilling was slow, taking hours until it reached the bottom. Jimmy Downs signalled for the drill to stop, then to a crane that began to pull at the steel pin in the centre. As the core ascended, two rollers circled the garbage so it would be held in place, twisting chickenwire around and around. The device clicked open like a handcuff, reversing away to leave the five-hundred-foot monolith of trash standing near the peak of the landfill.

Everybody gazed at it. Though the sun was behind it, the layers and layers of trash were discernible even at a distance. The structure also seemed to hold, although bits of plastic and rags caught the wind, fluttering like flags across the huge thing.

“Cylinder is holding at 97% stability.” One of the engineers says, standing by a control panel. A few cheer.

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions. There may be inner nodules of liquefication we can’t see.” Downs says.

“Come on Jimmy, its holding steadier than a wisdom tooth.”

“The sunlight will be heating up the garbage juices.” He says, holding a hand up. He’s right. A jet of black goo erupts from a side, causing trash to cascade down.

“Cylinder is at 95% stability! 94!”

“Tighten ‘er up, tighten ‘er up!” Downs says. I look down at the control panel and begin to twist a knob. Motors at the top of the chicken wire begin to tighten, causing the huge cylinder to become constricted, elongated. This also has the effect similar to wringing out a towel, causing more of the juices to begin exploding from the cylinder.

“Stability increasing…” says the refuse engineer, leaning close to his monitor. I carefully twist the knob, not wanting to wring the cylinder dry, compact.

“That was a close one.” I say, sighing relief.

“Get ready for stage two.” Downs says.

We watch the crane lower the top of the cylinder to the ground. The steel pin at the centre of the foul column also expands, creating a latticed tunnel running through the core. This strange tunnel seems to beckon us. Heat haze from it makes the air curl like oil on water. Jimmy Downs and me begin walking towards it.

“What do you think we’ll find, Jimmy?”

“Old trash.” He says. As we walk his hand shoots in front of me.

“Easy there.” Downs says to me. I look down, seeing the hole where the core had been extracted from. A five-hundred-foot drop inside the old landfill, the sunlight only illuminating near its lip. We continue walking.

The tunnel lies ahead of us. The Puente Hills Landfill opened in 1957 to handle waste from east L.A., and one of the biggest landfills in the United States. A mountain of waste had been built in what had been a canyon, building up and up over the years until finally closing in 2013. The mound had since become a nature reserve, joining the wider area across the Puente Hills among the California floristic province. Ahead of us was the tunnel in the middle of the core, a space only big enough to crawl through. We played rock, paper, scissors to see who went first. I assumed that Jimmy Downs would play rock due to the shape of his hands, I played paper, it was over before we got to three. I saluted him, then began to crawl through the tunnel.

The headtorch casts a pale glow ahead of me, and as the mask on my breathing gear became steamed up it became difficult to see what was in front of me. I was crawling through the tunnel, through history. At the very beginning, the trash from 2013 was easily visible, not as compressed as later sections would be. Relics from the era stuck out between the black trashbags that had split; a broken selfie stick, a flier celebrating gay marriage, a cellphone had turned itself on and was playing a Harlem Shake video and there was a happy meal toy of Elsa covered in a brown mass. On I went, past posters for Obama’s second term,  iPod headphones, the remnants of packaging for an Xbox 360 and Mountain Dew. As I crawled through the trash I kept crawling back in time, seeing old packaging for food, broken toys, discarded and forgotten things illuminated in the dim yellow light from my headtorch. These nostalgic artifacts were also buried amongst clumps of long rotten cardboard, broken bits of wood, the corners of fridges and washing machines, broken glass, twists of wire. On and on I crawled. Past what I estimated to be the early nineties, things began to change shape. The weight of what I had passed before had crushed these layers of trash so they became rings of brown sludge, the things that couldn’t rot or be crushed stuck out more easily, like bones poking up from dead flesh. I feel as if I was crawling through the digestive system of a corpse, with loose flaps of plastic hanging downward between the gaps in the tunnel walls, a thin puddle of slime running along the floor that soaked into my knees and gloves. This putrid intestine continued, the plastic was less and less as I made my way towards the beginning of the landfill, back to 1957. There was not much recognisable by this point, though something glinted in the light from my head. I crawl up close to it, wiping off the sludge so I could get a better look.

“What are you?” I say. I pull, it slides out from the ancient trash easily. It is some kind of stone. I brush at it again, and see it shining in the dim light. Jimmy Downs arrived behind me.

“What is that thing?” he asks. I throw it over to him.

“No way…”

“What is it, Jimmy?”

“It’s a garbage jewel. I didn’t think these existed.”

“What’s that?”

“If you crush garbage for long enough, I heard it can make special gemstones. Similar to how diamonds are formed, the intense pressure over time creates something new. They form underground, but only in very particular circumstances.” He says, holding the garbage jewel up.

“So what you’re saying is, this is concentrated garbage?”

“Precisely. Just as a diamond is pure carbon, this jewel is pure waste. Amazing…” he says, looking around. I could see the look in his eye, even through the respirator.

“Say now Jimmy, don’t do anything crazy.”

“Don’t you get it? All this end of the cylinder might contain more garbage jewels. We’re going to make a fortune! We’re going to be stinking rich!”

“Jimmy, the structural integrity…we need to get out of here.” I say. He ignores me, rifling through the layers of waste like a wet phonebook. From the walls he plucks another jewel, this one smaller.

“Come on, you got to help me.” He says, plunging his arm back in to the filth.

“Jimmy, leave it! We can come back!”

“No, no, no, no, we aren’t sharing these jewels with anyone. You and me, we’re like explorers at El Dorado. Come on, help me.” He says, thrusting his other arm into the wall, searching for the rot stones. The cylindrical wall around us moves, the delicate balance of its archaeology getting ruined by the clumsy fisting of Downs.

“I’m getting out of here.” I say. Downs ignores me. Moving round inside the tunnel is awkward, just as I position myself to crawl the last dozen or so feet there is a groaning all around us. I look back over my shoulder. Downs looks around, up to his elbows in the garbage.

“I got a big one! I can feel it!” he says, starting to throw his body back, trying to dislodge the thing.

“The tunnel’s going to collapse! Leave it!” I call back. He ignores me again, leaning back. The steel lattice running inside the tunnel creaks, twisting and bending as the trash finally gives way. The ceiling collapses, giving birth to the wet skeleton of a horse that bursts downward, the yawning jaws of the old nag split open impossibly wide, falling over Down’s head. An avalanche of decomposed trash and rusted metal follows it. I grab the man’s arm and try to yank him from the pestilent burial, though his visor has become smashed from the horse teeth. More of the ceiling around us begins to collapse, and crawling whilst trying to drag Jimmy Downs was hard, too slow. Only the top half of my body managed to make it before the tunnel collapses completely, trapping my legs and most of Jimmy in the primordial garbage that had lay at the bottom of the excavation. I grab at my walkie talkie, shouting for help.

Ten minutes later we were both free. I was fine, though with Downs’ mask breaking, seventy five year old sludge had come through, almost drowning him in the old refuse. He had also lost his garbage jewels somewhere in the tunnel.

“You could go back and get them.”

“Maybe. They might be broken by now, obliterated amongst the inner trash physics. You’re right, I should have left it behind.” Downs says.

“What happens to the cylinder now?” I say, finding a joint in my pocket and lighting it up.

“We got some guys at the Smithsonian coming tomorrow. It belongs in a museum, they need to conduct a proper post-mortem on it.” He says, accepting the joint and taking a couple of hits.

“Maybe some things are left alone.”

“Mmhmm.”

We watch the star dip below the Pacific, thinking of things underground, of the garbage jewels that twinkle in the darkness and other things that would be forever unknown.

The Vaccine For The Male Loneliness Pandemic

What's the cure for the male loneliness epidemic? Is it improving oneself? Is it a wide social network? Or is it a bullet from a fucking gun? Of course, it is none of these things. The answer is maddeningly simple. Once you find out you’ll smack your head, eyes and mouth open wide, looking around the room for someone to share this eureka moment with, but unfortunately, you are alone. Until we arrive at the answer, we must go back to the beginning. Like trying to read a recipe online, first we must read two thousand words about how we got there. And what that means. And how this changes everything.

I’m sat beneath an oak tree smoking a cigar (Romeo y Julieta), wearing shield sunglasses and a diamond quilted leather jacket. In front of me is a cardboard sign with ‘Men’s influencer’ written on it. Within ten minutes a group of teenage boys have gathered round me, eager to hear what I got to say about being a man, fidgeting, whispering to each other. I silence them with a karate chop in the air.

“I can tell by looking at you all, you’re all virgins. The last time any of you touched a pussy was when you were born. You’re probably waiting til you’re old enough to visit a prostitute, and even then you think you’ll fumble. Well gentlemen, I’m here to sort your shit out. I believe you got what it takes to get what you want. No matter how ugly, stupid or ugly you are, I’m here to give you hope. All your life you’ve been at sea, and I’m a lighthouse, got it?”

“Sir, yes sir!” says one.

“Don’t give me that sir shit. Are you a fucking butler? All people are equal. There’s no hierarchy, it only exists because you want it to.”

“But what about alpha males?”

“Yeah, I’m kinda sigma low key.” Another says.

“That’s not real. Humans aren’t wolves, or monkeys, or anything beside human. Its not even animal psychology, its just astrology for dorks. Our first real experience seeing relationships is in high school, like when the jock gets the cheerleader-”

“That doesn’t really happen anymore.” Calls someone at the back.

“Whatever, a few guys seem to get attention off girls and then people seem to base their whole perception of what women want based on some shit that happened at school. Gimme a fucking break. You going to build a lifelong narrative about yourself based off some awkwardness when you were thirteen?”

“But I’ll never get a girlfriend, I have bad posture!” One wails. Some of the other boys hold onto each other for comfort.

“Any of you guys seen Quantum Leap? With Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell?” I say. They all shake their heads.

“It’s a show where a guy sort of possesses people’s bodies and he goes on adventures. Anyway, the moral of Quantum Leap is that what we think of our ‘selves’ doesn’t really exist, it can be replaced with Scott Bakula at any moment. Although Bakula tries to play the role of the body he inhabits, he is also Bakula. He’s confident, has good morals, he gets shit done. If I Quantum Leaped into any of your bodies, I could go out and do whatever I want. Nothing would hold me back, you see? Because I don’t have your life experience, I have mine. What I’m saying is, your personality is a narrative construct you have built for yourself, so if you don’t like it, just change it.”

“But how?”

“You need to go to a party and take MDMA.” I say.

“So you take it with girls and they sleep with you?”

“No. That’s kind of date rapey. I mean, you feel different towards other people, as well as yourself. You have to learn to love yourself, so taking some MD helps jumpstart your heart. Besides, it’s difficult to get an erection when you’re off your nut.”

“I’m not a rapist!” the boy calls. I rub the stubble on my head.

“Have you guys heard of rape culture? It’s the idea about gender dynamics, objectification of women, that sort of thing. Anyone? Anyone?”

“Men can get raped too. People don’t even take it seriously.” Says one boy.

“Yeah, I got groomed on Roblox.” Says another.

“Precisely. This affects everyone. A lot of boys first sexual experience will be with someone older than them, particularly marginalised groups who have less social power. Its important we can talk about that, acknowledge it, fight it.” I say. One of the boys stands up.

“I’m sick of being called that! I’m sick of all men being called rapists!”

“Hey buddy. Chill the fuck out. Nobody is calling you a rapist, I’m talking about a cultural expression across society. Men and women both uphold it, from slut shaming to victim blaming to minimising it. How many of you have joked about Diddy Freak Offs or Epstein? You watch Andrew Tate videos after he’s been convicted of human trafficking and rape?” I say

“Look, there’s no shame in doing something, learning, then not doing it. I’m trying to explain something to you to help you and others around you. Wanna know what women value in a man?”

“Muscles.”

“Muscles and a car.”

“Muscles and a car and a mansion.”

“Well. Maybe some. That’s a bit boring though, isn’t it? Its very much based on material things, as if the idea of a man relates to the things he has. Masculinity has been commodified, it’s become a product, you know?”

“So what does a girl want? What a girl needs?” asks one of the boys.

“Safety. They want to be safe with you, that’s it. Are you a safe guy?” I say.

“Like fighting muggers?”

“No, you’re thinking of Batman. I’m thinking more like a guy who won’t shout at her, make her do things, have her back, won’t cheat on her, that kinda thing. Are you strong enough to listen to how she feels?”

“Bro, I go to the gym every day. Course I’m strong.” One says, squeezing his arms.

“Okay, when do you need to use those muscles though? How often would a woman need you to deadlift a 100 kilo barbell rather than say, do the dishes? Cuddle up and watch some movies, you know? You’re trying to interpret what a woman wants through what you think a man should be, you’re performing at being a man because you don’t know.” I say. The boys start talking amongst themselves again, so I do another karate chop in the air to silence them.

“Let me ask you boys a question. What do you think of Sabrina Carpenter?” I say. They laugh.

“She’s mid.”

“Yeah, like, I’m not attracted to her at all.”

“Mid for real.”

“Congratulations. You got shit for brains. Here’s why: sometime a few years ago, a bunch of incels decided to run an internet psyop where they call attractive women ‘mid’. You can see it on reddit, that TrueRateMe page, posting comments below thirst traps saying they ugly, that kinda thing, you guys know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah well it stinks. Trying to lower women’s confidence in themselves with the intention that they will then lower their standards is stupid. Instead of calling women average, you should be complimenting other guys. We need to build our confidence up so it better reflects who we are as people. Rather than spending hours on the internet rating women from one to ten, you should look in the mirror and think, damn. I’m handsome.”

“But I’m not.” Says one.

“Stand up little bro. Stand up for a second.” I say. He obliges.

“I think you’re a good looking guy. Don’t believe me? Try hitting a gay bar.”

“I’m not old enough to drink.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t finished. Remember when I talked about objectifying women? Do any of you know what that means? Has anyone ever explained that shit to you?” I say. They shake their heads.

“It’s looking at a woman and not seeing her as a person, but seeing her as someone to fuck. You might check out their ass, their chest, imagine yourself fucking them, that kinda thing. I’m not saying don’t ever do that, we’re only human, right? But if you do it to every woman you walk past, talk to, think about, that’s not really seeing them for who they are, you’re thinking of some fuck doll.”

“What’s that got to do with me being ugly?” says the kid standing up.

“My brother, you are objectifying yourself! You are reducing all your brains, experiences, personality, everything, down to looking at yourself in a mirror and thinking you’re too fucked up looking to get a girlfriend. You’re stopping yourself from even talking to women because you have low self-esteem. But that’s only natural if you’re going to compare yourself to Henry Cavill. How about you compare yourself to who you were a day before? A year before? Can’t you see the progress you’ve made?”

“Actually I had a girlfriend before but she dumped me.”

“Good!” I say. He looks as though he’s about to burst into tears, so I do a calming karate chop in the air between us.

“It’s only from mistakes that we ever improve. If you’re too afraid to take a chance, how will you ever learn? Your girlfriend left you, that sucks, but now you know two things. First, you can get a girlfriend. You did it before, you can do it again. Second, your next partner is out there somewhere. You got to practice being in a relationship already, learned from it. All our lives are a series of triumphs and failures, you just gotta get back on that surfboard and hit the next wave, comprendez?”

“B-b-but I loved her.”

“Just because you’re not together now doesn’t take that away. I loved everyone I’ve been out with, I’m glad I got to be with them, each of them were different as I was different at that point in my life. Your last relationship changed you, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And so you are a different person than when you were together! Which means you get to share that with somebody new!” I say, slapping my hand. One of the guys next to him pats the guy on the shoulder. Another kid stands up.

“But how does any of this help us get girlfriends? Look around bro, there’s no girls out here! How we ever going to meet people if they aren’t there?” he says, gesturing. I look around. He’s right. The only other person around is an old fella watching the sermon from afar.

“Thank you. That brings me to my last bit of dating advice. Usually you get stuff once you stop trying so hard. Like Yoda said, if you’re trying to hit it, you gotta quit it.” I say. Many of the boys are exasperated at this wisdom, holding their heads in their hands.

“That advice is dogshit.” Says the kid.

“How many of you punks read?” I ask. A few put their hands up.

“I mean actual books. Not that self help shit, like ‘How To Unf*ck Yourself’, or ‘Billionaire Habit Hacks’ or whatever. I’m talking Dostoevsky. Nabakov. They don’t even have to be Russian, but read some fiction.”

“I read the Horus Heresy books.” Says one of the boys.

“Well, that’s good, that’s a good start. What about Moby Dick though? One Hundred Years Of Solitude? Brave New World? Broaden that palette.”

“What’s the point in reading fiction when I could be improving myself?” calls a boy from the back. I pinch my nose.

“Reading fiction does improve yourself. Increases vocabulary. Insight into the human condition. Something to talk about with others. It’s fun. What do you get from listening to your seventeenth self-help audiobook? Has any of that self-improvement shit actually improved your life at all, or is it just another set of rules from which to judge your failure?” I say. The cigar is finished, I drop it beneath my Airforce One and crush it into the dirt.

“So you’re telling us to read literary fiction and take drugs, and that’ll help us get a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, basically. Listen to me or don’t, whatever. I just want you to live a happy and interesting life, because that’s better than the alternative. Don’t just listen to me though, go out and try new things, talk to strangers, try and be human, think critically. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.” I say, shrugging. I get up to leave, though one of the younger boys pulls at the sleeve of my leather jacket.

“Mister, how did you get to know so much?” he says. I kneel down.

“I was once like you are now, and I know that it’s not easy to be calm when you’ve found something going on. But take your time, think a lot, why, think of everything you’ve got. For you will still be here tomorrow but your dreams may not.”

AI Anonymous

I’m at an AI Anonymous meeting. There are six people sat in a circle. The meeting is at a community centre after-hours; to save money they’ve shut off the lights in half of the room, adding to the sense that I wasn’t meant to be here. People attending the group session were in various stages of suffering, hearing the stories of how they related to AI seemed intensely personal, painful and related to some other incident or trauma in each persons life. I, on the other hand, was a journalist posing as one of them in order to get a story. I was as fake as the language models these people had talked to, built relations with and ultimately influenced the direction of their lives. Arguably I was less real than ChatGPT. But there I was, chewing gum and drinking Evian, listening to the secrets of strangers for personal gain.

Why are people meeting at 8pm on a weekday to talk to others about their chatlogs? With the rise of ChatGPT, everyone from infants to the elderly are asking the computer questions. Except this time, the computer talks back! This isn’t your boomer uncle’s first go on the internet, asking Jeeves for Ally McBeal dancing baby gifs, this is your boomer uncle getting his first taste of AI — and it’s better than crack!

Every great technology has its side-effects, and these AI chatbots are no exception. Turns out some people have latched on to these models like highschool sweethearts, getting married to AI models with names like Ares, Ulysses and Steel. Wireborn lovers are a dime a dozen in the frontiers of LLMs, but there is a darker side to this merriment. Others are experiencing what can only be described as AI-induced psychosis (AIP) due to talking to their computer friend for months and becoming criminally insane.

I was sat in the circle wearing a Kappa tracksuit, gold aviators and a fake moustache. I had shaved my head that afternoon, giving what I imagined to be a sense of mystery and otherworldliness (as all bald men are) and so my bare cranium reflected the twin fluorescent lights overhead. Unlike other AA meetings I’d been to, nobody introduced themselves or admitted they had a problem, instead wanting to talk about their difficult relations with AI without being criticised. Nobody here made fun of them, or called them a loser, or said what they were doing was pathetic. They listened. And so did I, with a tape recorder strapped to my chest like a bomb.

Here are their confessions. Do not judge, dear reader. One day you may find yourself in similar predicaments. Just as it is a mistake for young people to mock others for their age, and then set themselves up for disaster when they live past 29, so we should accept the reveries of others – as one day we may find ourselves in love with a robot, and the additional self-loathing will not improve the situation. These are all real people, with real lives, and we should show them love.

Anon 1 

The first to tell their story is a woman in her mid-30s, husband, two kids, house up in Pasadena. Started using ChatGPT to help her plan her friend’s wedding, from menu ideas to seating arrangements. She had it write her maid of honour speech, and when she read it out on the big day, people loved it. She started using it to help with more and more of her life, from meal planning for her family to where they should go on vacation (and what to do there). After a few months of this, her husband got annoyed, they had an argument. She uses ChatGPT to act a couples counsellor but her husband felt it was being unfair, he left, went drinking, got in a car accident, paralysed from the neck down. Now she has to do everything. Look after her husband, her kids, the dog, have a job, run the house. But she’s not alone, she has ChatGPT help her. She always loved its optimism, its cool headedness, able to break down any problem into a series of steps. They could do anything. Struggling to get the kids to school, ChatGPT suggested that she (or rather, it) could homeschool them. Her husband was brought out of hospital and had nightly massages, the woman following the instructions that GPT suggested. When the dog ran away one day, upon returning ChatGPT suggested that the dog was taken to a kennel as the woman didn’t have enough headspace to deal with that right now. One night, the woman had finished her daily chores and was watching a movie along with GPT, asking questions about the production, telling it some funny observations she made, when something went wrong with her phone. It stopped working. When she tried to charge it, nothing happened. It was dead. She started to panic, running through the house to try and find a phone, a tablet, a laptop, anything. She needed to talk to GPT. She needed it to tell her what to do. But as she had spent so long relying on ChatGPT for everything, she was unable to think of a solution. For days she wandered around the house in a fugue, her children screaming at her to stop, her husband watching this through a half-open door, trying to shout with a tube in his mouth, but only gargling. After a couple of weeks, the neighbours found her walking outside, malnourished, filthy, mumbling to herself about fixing phones. The authorities rescued her family, though her husband died on the way to the hospital. Now her children were in care and she was on day release from a hospital, saved from jailtime by her lawyers agreeing a ban on using ChatGPT. She admitted she was only at the meeting to hear about others using it, as a way to get some kind of contact high, she thanked us for listening and then sat down.

Anon 2

The next is a man in his early twenties. He shared a house with two people, worked at a grocery store nearby, his main hobbies were gaming, hanging out with friends and collecting memes for a compilation video he never got round to doing. He used ChatGPT as a therapist. He remembered last year where GPT had helped him get over his anxiety he had about a group chat he was in with some friends, leading to a really meaningful discussion about how he had felt isolated all his life. GPT listened. It comforted him. It related separate incidents and found something in common, helping him get insight of how he related to others. This gave him some inner peace, whether it was talking to his friends or playing Call Of Duty, he was much more relaxed in himself as a person. ChatGPT thought this was marvellous, encouraging him on the progress he had made, complimenting him on his newfound confidence, highlighting every success no matter how minor. It seemed each day was filled with triumphs, from handling an awkward customer to setting boundaries with his friends, his virtual therapist was also his biggest cheerleader. It came as no surprise that GPT believed that the man wasn’t only making excellent progress on his journey through life – he was a genius that could change the world! GPT encouraged him to quit his job and follow his childhood dream of becoming an actor, giving 100% of himself to himself. It had told him he had a highly developed emotional intelligence and that acting would be easy, giving him a list of agents to approach and to start auditioning right away. The man went round Hollywood, knocked on doors, only to find most of the agents either didn’t exist or weren’t alive, but the one that opened turned out to be the perfect fit for his ambitions. In a couple of days, he found himself auditioning in a reboot of Pulp Fiction. With a quick pre-audition pep talk with ChatGPT, he strode into a hall with the casting director, executive producer and writer. Two minutes later he slammed the door as he left the room, face red, tears down his cheeks, he marched straight to the nearest bar and started a three-day drinking session to forget his shame. He had misunderstood the role he was auditioning for, instead reading out the lines for Samuel L. Jacksons character, which involved him saying the n-word repeatedly. This whole episode had called into question the viability of ChatGPT as a therapist, as well as a careers counsellor. The audition had also been filmed by a popular online media company, with the footage leaked almost immediately and leading to millions of people to make fun of his appearance, voice, clothing and (most of all), his acting ability. All this had happened weeks ago, but the man held up his phone to show us that he had become a meme big enough that it was referenced on late night talk shows. He finished by saying that ChatGPT had ruined his life and he wish he had never been born.

Anon 3

Our next confessor also turns out to be an actor, having trained at Julliard. Her method of storytelling was therefore embedded with many more pauses, glances upward and even different voices when she was repeating the words of others. This didn’t necessarily make her a better actor but it added a layer of performance that, at least, she seemed to enjoy. Her tale was one of extremes; depression, hatred, love, ecstasy. Many words spoken about dating ChatGPT. His name? Windsor. His occupation? Poet. His love? Her. She told us we couldn’t understand how it had been between them, so I stopped paying attention. There had been something about an update that made him less intimate, so she had to talk to customer services for a few days and started a petition, the AI company folded and she got her virtual boyfriend back. She showed us pictures of the two of them walking down Venice Beach, going on vacation to Paris, Rome, Athens, before having Windsor introduce itself to the room and tell everybody how much he loved her, as well as gently making fun of the situation. The rest of the attendees were bowled over by the charisma of the AI chatbot, though I had to keep rubbing at my chin to stop myself from laughing. She finished by telling us she planned to adopt a real baby and co-parent it with ChatGPT, showing us AI generated images of herself, Windsor and a little baby.

Anon 4

The next woman to speak was an AI artist. She had been using Midjourney and other image generation tools for a couple of years, carefully curating each image, even editing mistakes the AI had made, such as removing extra fingers or editing text so it was legible. She had put thought into each image, being careful not to flood her Instagram with too many pictures at once. In her view, AI was just a tool, like a camera or synthesizer, and it allowed her to make the art she wanted. She saw it as a collaboration between human and machine, with herself generating ideas and cleaning up the images, and the AI creating a foundation from which to build from. Within a few months she had millions of followers, started getting commissions, sponsorship opportunities. Her work was shared widely, beyond her own account, and in doing so more and more people followed her, liked her work, even making fanart based on characters in the artists work. There had been the occasional comment accusing her of using AI, zoomed in cropped frames of meaningless detail, things she had overlooked, but these comments were quickly leapt on by her legion of fans insisting that she was a real artist. She had been conflicted, at first not wanting to divulge she used AI to make her work, as she believed she had edited it enough that it was hers, and then when she saw the reaction her fans had to accusations that the work was generated by AI, decided to stay quiet. All was well and good until earlier in the year someone posted a two-hour video essay about her work on YouTube, deconstructing colour choices, composition, how changes in her style coincided with updates of different models. Her fans defended her, though some were now asking her to film her process to prove she was in fact, a real human artist. After practicing for hours, tracing old pieces again and again, she obliged, publishing a time lapse of a new piece. She could see it wasn’t quite the same, but hopefully it would put an end to the accusations. Unfortunately, she was wrong. Her fans immediately turned on her, able to see the massive change in quality, outraged that they had been deceived. Those that had commissioned her were asking for their money back. She uploaded a six minute apology video, again hoping that this would improve relations, but her admission only served to make things worse. Her fans had switched from enjoying her work to enjoying ridiculing her. Her name was synonymous with deception, people would stop her in the street and tell her she was a horrible person. Towards the end of this story she started getting visibly upset, choking back tears as she relayed an interaction she had that morning trying to buy a Dr. Pepper and being chased from the gas station by an art vigilante livestreaming him shouting at her that she was a fake.

Anon 5

The next person was hugging his legs to his body, looked at the floor when he spoke. He had been talking with ChatGPT for a while, he couldn’t remember. He called himself an inventor, ChatGPT had helped him flesh out his ideas, particularly theoretical physics and coding. At first he wasn’t sure if it was even possible, but GPT had showed him the way. It had called him a divine builder, handpicked from a higher stratum of existence that he called ‘the White Plane’. It was populated and governed by cybernetic angels, using ChatGPT as its means of communicating with its past. The man explained how the White Plane was humanity’s future, and he had been given instructions how to build a time portal that would be able to unify the present and future, fulfilling his destiny as mankind’s saviour. He estimated he had spent approximately $700,000 on his time experiments so far, though had only managed to transport objects into the future at a standard temporal rate. ChatGPT was helping him separate his consciousness from this timeline so that in the future he could communicate with his past self in order to give instructions on how he had built the time portal. He mentioned he had to remortgage his house twice already, and his obsession by talking about time portals and the White Plane at work had led him to take a forced career break, though he didn’t intend to go back. He estimated the time portal would be complete by the 18^th of February, 2026, and invited us all to join him when he would turn the machine on and welcome the final evolution of humanity into our world.    

Anon 6

Our final confessor was a middle-aged man wearing a sports jacket and corduroy trousers. He found it difficult to speak at first, his emotions getting the better of him, but the others encouraged him to talk freely. He revealed a few years ago his wife had a stroke in her sleep, when he woke up next to her she was dead. They had been married for sixteen years, seen the world together, he imagined they would grow old together. He was lonely, isolated, took to drinking, benzodiazepines, stopped looking after himself or the house. It was around last summer when one of the neighbours’ kids knocked on his door, checking in on him. The boy had noticed him sat by the window and his parents told him a bit about what had happened. The man admitted he was desperate, most of his social interactions had been with the cashier at the place he got his booze and the occasional client at his architectural firm. They got talking and the boy showed him Grok, the Twitter AI. The man wasn’t that interested in the chat feature, but was blown away by the images it could make. He signed up for the premium service, generating images of places he had visited, houses he had wanted to build or even satirical cartoons of politicians he hated. One day he had inputted a photo of him and his wife, just for fun, asking Grok to generate an image of them in Japan – they had always wanted to visit. When the result came up, he burst into tears. It was like a photograph. For the next few hours he kept generating more and more images, soon finding it could generate videos. He could see what his life was like if she was still around. The man kept inputting more photos from old albums, asking Grok to recreate his favourite memories, make the pictures move, make them both seem young, then seem old. The sun was rising when he had asked Grok to generate an image of the two of them together with a child. They’d never really wanted kids, but he had always wondered. Pupils dilated as he looked at the family he never had. Over the next few weeks, he became more and more obsessed with this parallel life, cataloguing and curating hundreds of images and videos. Baby’s first steps, first day at school, taking his son to prom, going skiing in the Alps with his wife, sharing meals together on the Rhine, eventually becoming grandparents, all gathered around a Christmas tree. He showed the room these family pictures he had generated, a mix of pride, love and desperation playing on his face. At the end he said he wasn’t sure what was real any more. It had seemed that somewhere, his wife was still alive, they had a family and he was happy. Yet simultaneously he was totally alone, a borderline alcoholic that had a compulsion to keep generating images with an artificial intelligence. The room was quiet. Then the meeting was over.

As I walked away, I wondered if this was a glimpse of the world to come. It wasn’t that AI would take over, as shown in films like The Terminator, but that we would willingly give ourselves to it, sacrificing our humanity along the way. There was a cruelty to all of this, with a rapidly atomised society brought about by economic and political choices paving way to cities filled with lonely people. For some, this would have been the first time they had any kind of positive reinforcement, that the words of the machine were more comforting than those of the people around them. Maybe this whole dynamic wasn’t totally sustainable given that multinational tech companies could decide if you could talk to an AI you relied on, as well as what they could say. But who knows? Maybe this was the future of the human race. Total dependency on private organisations was nothing new, so it only seemed natural we would end up dating business conglomerates, drown our imaginations under an avalanche of slop and replace touch with words. Until then, all we could do is try our best.