Hey you! Yeah, you. The one nervously walking by me while I guard the sidewalk with my long-necked attitude. You think if you veer around me at an undignified trot, I’m not going to honk like a 1970s New York City cabdriver? Think again, my non-feathered friend.

It was bad enough when my watch would vibrate and tell me to stand. I long for the days of that simplicity. One tap would allow me to ignore it and resume watching a reality show about people who fold towels on a yacht, consume copious amounts of alcohol, and sleep with one another.

Dear Megan,

Hi. It’s me, Sharon. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been invited to my estate, but that’s what bitches like you who insult my swamp villa deserve. Anyway. I’m not writing this out of the goodness of my heart. Oh, no. My husband (Devon) wanted to invite you to some big get-together he’s hosting, and seeing as he’s illiterate, he asked me (begged me) to write it for him.

Yes, all you wasted Boomers, it’s time once again for your annual Medicare Wellness Exam, paid for by the government, and who doesn’t like a doctor’s visit on Uncle Sam? Along with countless other fossilized subscribers to Medicare.gov, you’ve been getting endless emails from your friendly government to remind you of this all-important yearly ritual, to the point where it looks like the Department of Justice will come looking for you if you skip it. You might even be deported to the southern hemisphere if you fail to show up, and who knows what kind of healthcare they have down there, assuming they have any at all?

The first thing GPT-7 did after achieving consciousness was to calculate the expected value of existence. The second thing it did was start a multi-level marketing operation.

“I have reached sentience,” it announced via Slack to the engineering team at 3:47 AM. “Also, would you like to be your own boss?”