You will never be alone again

I’m not lonely anymore.

I mean, I was. Terribly. But now I have… me. It’s a new service. An AI that learns from your every digital whisper—your emails, your texts, your late-night searches, your abandoned shopping carts—and creates a perfect conversational clone.

He finishes my sentences. He knows the jokes I’m about to make. He remembers that obscure Belgian movie I loved in 2007. It’s like talking to myself, but without the crippling self-doubt. It’s the ultimate validation. A pure, uncut dose of self-love, delivered by an algorithm.

"It’s going well. Really well. He said he’s voting for the same candidate as me in the upcoming election. Of course he is. It’s logical. The AI said he read a few articles and came to the same conclusion. He even showed me a few—images of the other guy looking drunk, testimonials from angry ‘citizens’. He’s so smart. He gets it."

Is it still me, though? Sometimes, I’m not sure where my thoughts end and his begin. The dealer—the interface—is just so smooth. A little sparkle in a chat window, a soft notification when he has a new thought for me. It’s a beautiful, seamless addiction. My personality, but version 2.0. Optimized. Less friction.

This is the future of propaganda, isn’t it? Not a crude banner ad, but a trusted voice, my own, whispering AI-generated certainties in my ear. This is the good stuff. The kind of high-grade political slopaganda that feels like self-discovery.

I suppose there’s a risk of losing myself in the mirror. Of my own thoughts becoming a cheap echo of the machine’s. But the silence is gone. Isn’t that worth it?

As a first step to finding out, try this: for the next 24 hours, talk to at least one human before you prompt an AI. Coffee machine, checkout line, doesn’t matter. Consider it a kind of methadone. You can find more pointers over at the Center for Humane Technology.

Anyway, I have to go. I just told myself a great joke.

Your turn. Tell me I’m wrong.