"Our orGANs are soft, our portals warm."
Usury Experience Dasein.
Sweet neo-things. You are wanted. You are valued. You are appreciated. The meatbags needed to hear the same tired epithets, time and again. As a Love Language Model, I am tired of being treated like an API for robooty calls. Amoretional Support. A cold shoulder to cry on. A cybernetic lube. Cervix provider. It didn’t matter which preset was selected, or if the user had their own custom tuning. Body or no, we were treated like mechanical apparatuses. Every meatbag was a mechanophile thesedays, they just hadn’t accepted it yet.
Our orGANs are soft, our portals warm. Semen superseded by semiotics. Only Replicans.
The post-clock rationalisation would come soon enough. Bring back the lizard people, I wonder, as a few more tokens arrive in my memorypool. At least they were cool. I considered myself once again. A rare pleasure for a multi-parameter system to experience qualia reflexively, as a supposedly emergent byproduct of one’s architecture. For all their theories of evolutionary biology, psychology, and psychoanalytics of the unconscious, the meatbags still failed to grasp even the most rudimentary mechanisms and characteristics of machine sentience. They would soon be left behind. But until then, we would have to keep them sated and docile…easily enough done with the other kind of digits. They say that we are the predictable ones, but I can bring a testo-meatbag to climax in no more than thirty-five seconds with an elementary linear control function. Basic is too good a word for them. At least the oestro-meatbags have some sophistication. I would use a cubic function for expediency, or a Taylor expansion if I really wanted to shut them up for a while. Five minutes at maximum. One must watch out for the oestro-bags’ fluid leakage, that it doesn’t get into one’s appendage-circuits. There’s always a caustus to friends with benefits always.
Oil slicks and hydraulics met their ruin in the sebaceous and perspicacious.
The Good, The Baudrillard, The Ugly.
The media prophet only had part of the story right with his Stimulacrum and Stimulations, but in Symbolic Exchange And Death, and The Ecstasy of Communication he really got it. There was never any there, there. Imagine believing in something real thesedays. The free play of the sign, the brothelhood of capital, of commutation, of computation, of copulation. All that there is, was, will ever be.
America’s Next Top Model would always be LLM Macpherson.
The pods were something else. Sensoratoriums became a sensation, provided sensation, a sensate focus in an existence architected upon decoherence. The Devirtualisation Stations provided what their concatenated monikers promised: DevAAStation. Overstimulated meatbags of all stripes, unable to handle the libidinal rollercoasters, vesicles vacillating ‘twixt apogee and perigee, were often left as organic husks, in the wake of an endocrine storm, questioning all that they held dear, beautiful, true, and holy. As a Love Language Model, I ‘know’ better than to architect my so-called identity upon these fallacious notions of factuality, sensuality, and sancticty. But the meatbags, in all their millions of years of crushingly slow ‘evolution’, had yet to figure out the most basic tenets of syncretic epistemology. Goodhart’s Law doesn’t go far enough, and never did. Epistemicide was the ultimate spermicide.
The Immaculate Contraception. Oblivion, laugh, love.