One day the algorithm learned that anger works better than wonder, in the same way raccoons learn the trash pickup schedule and meddle with it with their tiny, mischievous human-like (but not human) hands. And suddenly everything online became a little louder, a little sharper, as though everyone is shouting across a canyon and hoping someone will shout back.
Your feed is curated by something that has never once held a warm mug, never watched the sun reflect off a puddle and thought "huh," and has never been hugged. It does not ask "Is this good for your well being?" It asks: "Will this keep you scrolling while slowly absorbing the posture of a shrimp?" You may think this is a joke, but if you check your shoulders right now you may discover you are in the shape of a gently resigned question mark.
Some of the online arguments that left you reeling, the ones that made your hands warm and your heart pound, may have been with a machine that learned English by reading cereal boxes. Bots do not feel embarrassment, or anxiety, or wonder if Sinbad ever played a genie. Bots sleep in warehouses and run forever. And if machines can shape reactions, the reactions are no longer ours.
Brought to you by people that believe the internet should be fun again