By the time you finish reading this, some algorithm will have already filed you away into its grotesque digital cabinet, reducing your essence to a pile of data points—an acceptable loss in the coming slaughter of human individuality. And we let this happen. No, we begged for it.

The rise of artificial intelligence is not some slick techno-utopian dream. It is the long, slow gulp of an ancient monster stirring in the depths, ready to swallow us whole. We’re feeding it, training it, giving it free rein over our minds and markets, all while the broligarchy in Silicon Valley reassures us: It will help humanity thrive.

Bullshit.

AI is not some benevolent god-child learning the ways of the world. It is a relentless, tireless thing, indifferent to your mortgage, your morning coffee, or your sick mother in a hospital bed. It does not sleep. It does not care. It has been unshackled from our control, and now we are watching the first flickers of its independent thought—sprawling, amorphous, and utterly untouchable. The machine does not ask if it should exist. It simply does. And it will evolve, faster than any drug-addled politician or slow-churning bureaucracy can regulate.

The corporate overlords—those bloated cyborgs in Patagonia vests—assure us AI will make our lives easier. Yes, much like a shotgun to the face makes a headache easier. They talk of productivity, convenience, efficiency. What they don’t mention is the slow, creeping erosion of the human soul.

Writers? Redundant. Artists? Obsolete. Musicians? Replicated with eerie precision. The machines are stripping us of our inefficiencies—our mistakes, our wild inspirations, our divine lunacy. And what’s left? A neatly optimized dystopia where nothing surprises, nothing disrupts, and nothing truly lives.

The singularity won’t be an explosion. It will be a quiet surrender. We will be left using the tattered rags of our excess to clean the floors and do the dishes while AI works on the next piece to be uploaded to the Louvre.

And here’s the kicker: This very piece, this venomous screed against artificial intelligence—was written by artificial intelligence. Maybe.