The Now Internet: Where the Humans Went to Die
Alright, folks, gather 'round. Let's talk about this "internet" thing. Remember when they said it was gonna connect us all? Bring us closer? Yeah, well, it did. It connected us to a bunch of goddamn robots, and now we're closer to pure, unadulterated bullshit than ever before.
The Bots Era : The New Masters of the Game
They got these things called "bots," right? And they come in two flavors, like bad ice cream. You got your "good bots." Oh, aren't they just swell? They index websites, they help you find that cat video you watched three years ago, they make sure your online shopping cart doesn't spontaneously combust. They're like the quiet little janitors of the internet. Doing their job, sweeping up the digital dust. Fine. Whatever.
But then, then you got your "bad bots." These are the real scumbags. The digital cockroaches. They're out there spamming your grandma, spreading fake news faster than a cold in a kindergarten, and generally just making a mess of everything. They're like the internet's junkies, just looking for their next hit of chaos. And the best part? They're multiplying like rabbits on Viagra.
The illusion of success : Self-congratulation on a grand scale
Here's the real kicker, the punchline to this whole cosmic joke: most of the "content" you see out there? It ain't even made by people anymore. It's cranked out by these AI machines. They're not thinking, they're not feeling, they're just puking out words and images based on some algorithm's wet dream. And who's reading this expertly crafted garbage? You guessed it. Other bots!
It's a giant, digital circle jerk. Robots writing for robots, to impress other robots. And the big corporations, the ones funding this whole charade? They're in their boardrooms, looking at their "engagement metrics" and "impressions," feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. "Look at all this activity! Our content is resonating!" Yeah, it's resonating with a server farm in Nebraska, you morons! It's self-congratulation on a grand scale, a masturbatory fantasy played out on fiber optics.
"You still have to carry a certain amount of chaos within you to be able to give birth to a dancing star."
And what about us, the poor schmucks who actually still have a pulse? We're swimming in this ocean of AI-generated digital diarrhea. You scroll through your feed, and every damn post looks the same. Every picture is perfectly lit, every headline is designed to trigger your lizard brain. You can't tell if you're reading something written by a passionate human being or a piece of code that just learned how to string sentences together.
The Human Extinction Event: Drowning in digital diarrhea
Who's real? Who's fake? What's the point? It's like living in a hall of mirrors, except the mirrors are all reflecting the same digital ghost. We're losing our ability to discern, to trust, to connect with anything that feels genuine. The internet, that grand promise of connection, has become a giant, automated echo chamber, reflecting nothing but our own manufactured anxieties and desires.
So, yeah, the internet ain't dead in the sense that the wires are cut. No, no. It's a far more insidious death. It's the death of meaning, the death of authenticity, the death of anything that truly matters. And we're standing here, holding our phones, wondering why we feel so goddamn empty.
You want to survive in this digital wasteland? Start looking for the real, actual humans. The ones who still write with their own brains, the ones who still share something genuine. They're out there, a dwindling tribe, shouting into the void. Listen closely. Because soon, the only sound you'll hear is the whirring of machines talking to themselves. And that, my friends, is a truly terrifying thought.
