He fed chatGPT with my gift
Another Monday promised to be mundane and boring. I barely pushed into an overcrowded bus only to leave it several stops later. Staying there meant risking breaking some core bones. I popped out and waited for a tram. Ironically, it was crowded as well. Okay, let's consider it free massage. I had to go to the publishing house, and in older times that would be easy. I submit an application to my boss indicating when I'll work the hours I miss for my affairs. Now the management went crazy. Even if we have something unpredictable we submit the same application to be signed by our boss, the head of HR department, our director and then it goes to the general director secretary. Only heavens know how long that poor paper will rot there.
Because of that I left only four(!) minutes in advance to cross towards another stop and pray all gods I'd reach the publishing house in time. From time to time my body danced on snow and ice mimicking very poor ballet. Each time the driver slowed down their forsaken machinery I revised all negative words I had in my head. Ironically, Russian swears came to mind. They have another level of rude intensity. Anyway I did come in time. Hooray. But I was exhausted beyond any common sense. I hate it! This common rush somewhere for something. I have surely mentioned before I dream about slow living. To hell with this cult of successful success. We're nothing but cogs in an evil mechanism working at its limits.
I was thinking about posting another city view just to remind those rare followers I have on IG that I still exist. But I managed to register that was nothing but another attempt to seek external validation. No no no, sir. I won't fall into this pit again. I never win. If people like this slop I become more hooked. If people don't then I drown in self-pity of nobodylovesmeing. I'd better type again into the void of bearblog. Too good no one from real life will ever find me here. I need a place to vent without restraints.
Ivan broke my heart. He finally decided to check on my gift. How did I know it? He sent: 'Did your final cipher mean /Something totally wrong/' I genuinely asked how he formed this result. I wanted to follow his logic. He proudly announced he assigned chatGPT to decrypt my gift! I couldn't fight to urge to answer 'You mean if AI cracked the cipher I'd have never known you didn't do it on your own?' I mean, who banned you from asking me directly: 'Hey, ascara, I don't get this and that' Instead I discovered my effort was thrown into the meat grinder of soulless algorithm. Since AI didn't help he had to follow my explanations. Eventually he did obtain the correct result and wrote several texts about how he liked it. But it all felt hollow. And when he started reminiscing some older parts of his life (he's that talkative very rare) I just read. Yep, I was hurt. I spent a lot of time to make a decent multi step online quest without quest generators. But it was firstly ghosted and then brute forced (without success) by chatGPT. If only he showed some real interest our online friendship meant something. Pft. I prefer to not care by now.
For some reason I'm listening to the sounds of a collapsing building on Youtube, and it soothes me. What do want to tell me, my subconsciousness?