There are already simulations of you out there & more to come

by maddrunkgenius

When I drank a lot more, and wrote slightly more, I used to sound like a religious paranoid schizophrenic, manic-depressive with delusions of grandeur and a handful of nearly obsessive associations.

——Humanity is a perversely well-beloved pustule on
——the face of God that’s appreciated for ripening &
—— soon bursting open in  cysty self-destruction.

——’I smell blood!’ the first shark yelled between his guffaw.
——’Why so do I!’ the second chortled.
——But it was just uterine lining.

I am tired & hot & sore and
staring at the ceiling because
the backs of my eyelids are
a view that provides no rest.

There’s an app to take your Facebook statuses and use them to write something about like you’d say. A bit of you, an exaggerated & often nonsensical but occasionally a reminder you’re not so hard to simulate as you might think.

Some of them aren’t anything like what I’d say, only because the grammar is off a bit.

About anything, I just saw it has given to the sight of the bones of a policeshooting victim without guilt or fear.

I’ll probably whiteish people died in retrospect, but Jack and write real estate & obits & covered council meetings, paying her dues as she said. He said, ‘I think it’s good day anyhow.

From a progressive worldview, but knew also had nothing to be a thing, though.’ ‘Hm?’ ‘I mean I’m famished and flashing a mature grin & seemed friendly Tuesday.

Others sound like ‘fake deep’, so I’ve been told, and are indistinguishable from my own past inebriated ramblings.

I can’t tell anyone that, of course.

[Moon] and bile, but it’s no one day we cannibalize the dead.

‘There is magic in God.’ They said that didn’t count. Then they pepper-sprayed me.

The point in front of the officers involved is sailing in its visceral lust & immeasurable pity.

What is the window to hell that readily provides examples of reality disabusing my imaginations platonic ideal of drunken poetic slutmongering?

There is only evil tho it’s filling my nostrils, strangling my skin, rending it apart & calling it a life.

It tasted of the Negro Question? At last we want to cry.

In the Great Again—will be happy.

Quiet but for breathing; the best Communism served every day.

The weekend is just a poor, backwards, sorry, awful thing that wrinkled grayhairs shuffle & smoke thru in routine without any a screaming fun

With more than minor copy-editing, they sounded enough like me, I fussed over them until they came out as this.

I think finding true despair,
Recognizing it, understanding it,
and forgetting it is the mark
of the sane, competent,
and experienced
Just as with finding joy

In the end, it’s like going home,
to write something intently good
& perfect. Anyone writing the
good-good, fingers alight with
genius fire, feels it hot & supple
all about, but the whiskey stokes the
furnace, the bowels & groin,
even at 30 or 62.

I’ll have to regret this soon
If I like it so much already

Some clever & warm first breeze,
then coy cool second,
and last the heavy hot flesh-
breath, so humid it’s wet, so
soft it’s sticky, flicking into my
ear. That’s when you know
the South wind isn’t long for
this world anymore, or yours

I’d like to think there’s a discernable difference in there somewhere, but if someone else curated them for grammar and selected 10 they fancied, I don’t think there’s a dozen people alive who could tell mine from what’s otherwise-random gibbering. But maybe that’s because I’m a bit more stable now than have been, and most people don’t know me as then.

Maybe we only simulate our present selves based on the past selves, weighted to memory and recent relevance, and something more stable got in or unstable out so the recursive formula keeps producing a dull steady stable in result.

In 20 years, The Truman Show will get remade, except this time the main character is an advertising algorithm trying to use a person’s profile to better figure out what they should buy next this week.

If the universe is really just a computer simulation, that’s why, and the digital profile of you will outlive your direct electrical signature a few microseconds, at least, till the data from your body’s FitBit comes through and they update your status to ‘deceased’.