a significant bullet

It wasn’t significant in the least...

So I’ve been playing around with ChatGPT and Bing AI Chatbot. The tech world is abuzz about these AIs. Honestly, after playing with them, they suck. They provide wrong answers or no answers at all.

ChatGPT provides an error when asked if one with bipolar can live a normal life

What concerns me though is that major institutions are thinking of using these AIs to write films and novels.

Writers Guild of America Considers Letting AI Write Hollywood Scripts

As a writer, this scares me. Is my passion and reason for living going to become obsolete? Will machines be writing books?

I mean, there are people already using ChatGPT to write novels that are then published on Amazon Written Books on Amazon


I wrote something for the first time in countless months. It's for my next book. I don't know if it's any good, but hey, I wrote something.

This is how it went:

The skyline was beautiful on fire.

I remember your hair twisting in the breeze: thin, dark strands whispering in the gusts of hot air from below. You kept your hair long and styled whereas mine remained tussled, looking like I had emerged from years of sleep haunted by dreams of better days and motions I once took.

The sun is growing larger and brighter every minute. It started over a year ago. First, days that should have ended became longer and longer. Soon, the night began at ten o’clock, then eleven, then midnight, then we were living in the Arctic Circle, the Aurora shimmering above us in the guise of cirrus clouds refracting constant daylight.

Image of the Sun with large solar flares

At first, it was beautiful, shimmering gold in the streets—blues and whites intermingling in shards of glass. Then the orange came and the red. And then the riots and the looting. Buildings were destroyed and bodies piled against each other, vibrant skin bathed in the taunting orange glow.

Blood flowed in the streets for months. The sun grew larger.

The people, us, we, a combined human agreement, decided to stop. The sun would not stop growing, and neither would we. Everything we had created—money, knowledge, history, even our biology—no longer held us together. We did not care anymore. It would all burn. Like our bodies.

Millennia of human evolution condensed into three essentials: food, water, closeness.

Your hand squeezed mine in a playful tug, and I looked over at you. Your eyes were shining, bright, and brilliant through tinted darkness. I squeezed back and then pulled you close to me, bumping shoulders, letting go of your hand, and wrapping my arms around your full body. You let out a laugh as we tumbled down through the dirt of the hill.

We wore more dust than clothes. But they had become a necessity. Coverings of the flesh, devoid of social modesty and stylistic expression. Clothes became a means to live in order to die.

You wore a tattered flowing skirt coming down to your ankles, tucked into an enormous pair of black leather boots. A black zipped hoodie stretched across your body. I was in a dark set of jeans, same boots, and a purple zipped hoodie, too small. We had traded. We both wore scuffed and cracked motorcycle helmets and stippled gardening gloves.

We smelled of earth and sweat and a primal essence that had not existed for millions of years.

I had the luck of knowing you for several years before the sun began to expand. I did not seek you out; I found you through the chaos of normalcy. Before normalcy became chaos. When things were different and death was a distant image floating on the dying light of a star.

A decaying city surrounded by clouds and the Sun that looks like fire

Somewhere in the nearby city, a voice rang out, “ONE MINUTE! ONE MINUTE!” It echoed across the hills, “inute...inute...inute...” An explosive roar followed, thousands of people cheering and laughing. Horns and fireworks. People celebrating the biggest party in the planet’s history. And we lay together on a burnt hill, laughing.

I started knocking on your helmet visor with my fist and your voice, that voice, specific to you, lilting and unique, muffled by the thick plastic, made the air shimmer with laughter. Your wonderful voice. You.

You straddled me and playfully held my shoulders to the ground. I squirmed and kicked and finally lifted you off me and pinned you to the dust. We were laughing, the sound soft and muffled. You kicked and squirmed and your boot, unlaced, slowly shook off. Your foot became exposed to the light.

The whiteness of your skin immediately turned red, and became blackened.

You tuck your foot behind you, hiding it under your skirt, smiling that crooked smile at me and saying, “It’ll be over soon. It won’t burn off. I won’t feel it.”

“30 SECONDS! 30 SECONDS!” Another roar comes. More fireworks. More horns.

Toxic factory and pit spewing fumes

The sun grows above us, brighter and brighter. We came to this place because it was away from everyone else. It overlooks an industrial dump full of toxic chemicals and machinery. A dump that should not exist but does. A remnant of times gone by. In different circumstances, in different timelines, we would protest, and we would get it removed. The climate demanded it. If not changed, everything would be over. And now it is. Now we can do nothing.

Now it is our savior. No one knows of it. No one cares. The chemicals bubble and the fumes drift over us—we used to care. We used to care a lot. Now, all we care about is us. The dirt beneath our bodies, feeling the pressure of each other through layers of protective clothing, feeling an inward breath, seeing the expelled air condense on the face mask.

This moment is ours and will always be.

I want to touch you with skin and have my last image be of your face in the sun’s brightness. To the side, though, movement catches my attention and I turn my head to see what it is.

Walking hand in hand, a couple shuffles through the dust and ash. Shivering with palsy but with no aid. They stand confident, or as confident as their bodies would allow. An older man and woman make their way up the hill. He wears a full suit, dark shoes, and a handkerchief tied around his face. Dark goggles, once used for skiing, wrap around half of his head.

The woman wears a hand-knit sweater and a glowing white skirt, pleated and clean, obviously pressed before they ventured out, a large wicker sun hat, and a handkerchief around her face as well. No goggles, large bug-eyed sunglasses with reflective Aviator lenses—cobbled together, I assume, in earlier days. Open-toed shoes, her toes black and shriveled.

They walk majestically toward the sun. The man places his arm around the woman and pulls her close to him. She wraps an arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. They shuffle down the hill until they are out of sight.

The sun flares and I panic. You immediately grab the side of my helmet and pull my head toward yours. Your gloves are off, the skin of your hands peeling and turning black. Your helmet is off. Your dark hair bleaching to a strange whiteness, the skin of your face becoming red and pocked with blisters.

I see your smile. Your actual smile. See your eyes brighten and your callused and worn hands, beyond your years, grab the sides of my helmet and gently pull it off. The sting of light makes me wince. But I can feel you, your hands on my cheeks. Your forehead is suddenly against mine and that smile of yours reaching upwards beyond your own body. My gloves come off and I no longer feel the light. I cup your head in my hands, closing my eyes, pressing into you, smiling and happy, ignoring the pain from the massive star eating the sky.

“5, 4, 3...” the countdown comes from the city, growing louder. The sun expands and whiteness overtakes us. Orange and red and even the billboards take notice.

And I take your hands in mine, lowering them from my head, intertwining with your burning fingers. Only a few seconds left to keep loving you.

We fold into each other as the light of a star that protected and cared for us incinerates our bodies. Time ends and space expands; our entire selves reduced to carbon absorbed by photons, spreading across the universe, becoming nothing and everything at once.


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I wrote this for a magazine (Zathom) that gave you three words to use in a flash fiction piece.

You had to integrate the three words into your story and keep the word count under 60 words.

I titled it Superman in my mind and submitted it. I didn’t expect any response.

Apparently, Zathom editors loved it, published it, and featured it on their website and print version.

I also got paid $100 bucks simply for writing nonsense in 58 words.

Anyway, here it is:

Carlos lights up a cigarette, heavy glow, an island of red in blackness. The band plays on behind the walls, muffled but strong. “They’re pretty good” he says as he takes a drag. Newborn smoke from pink lungs curls in the buzzing streetlight. Anxiety is getting to Carlos. This woman is alien to him.


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I think with the rise in AI creations and how the Singularity is becoming more and more a real possibility, we need to listen to James Gleick. He wrote The Information which explores “…how digital information is now being understood in relation to physics and genetics.”

White robot looking right at the camera.

Gleick is exploring how current technology is changing us as humans.

Existential questions such as: what does it mean to be human? Are we making ourselves irrelevant with the advances in technology? If a computer becomes sentient—shown with ChatGPT and AI art—is humanity still viable?

What worries me is the use of AI-created information being used to further a certain agenda.

Let’s be honest: most people are lazy and stupid. At least on social media. They don’t critically think or research the information they consume. Using AI-created art or writing to push an agenda could be very easy and cause a lot of trouble.

Become media literate. Think critically.


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It’s been four years since Anthony Bourdain committed suicide. The same for Kate Spade. Spade died on June 5th, 2018. Just three days later, Bourdain followed her. Tragedy is not the right word. Suicide is not tragic. It is filled with sadness, hopelessness, self-hatred, and love. Love for the people who are cared for, holding the belief that the pain being caused to them through your existence will stop once you are gone.

Anthony Bourdain smiling

This is not tragic. This is the result of corrupted thoughts. Thoughts that you believe are true, that are real. Instead, these thoughts are lying to you. They are indeed true in that they exist. But only because they exist. What the thoughts mean is wrong, completely wrong. They bubble up from uncontrollable depression and continually repeat their poison to you:

“You’re worthless

You only hurt people

You’ll always be hopeless and sad

Nothing will change. This is forever

Those you love need you to not exist; you do nothing but hurt them.

This is out of love, not anger or spite. But love.”


I was in the hospital for six days. I just got out today and I'm exhausted. You never sleep in the hospital.

You also never get chocolate mousse. For dinner, I ordered chocolate mousse for dessert. When my meal came, I got the lazy version of mousse. Just staring at me.

Chocolate pudding trying to sneak its way into being chocolate mousse.

It was good though


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Last week, I decided To just say “fuck anxiety” and start writing my novel again. It's already been published, but right now, it exists as a short story.

I want a novel. 1,000 words or more, my story fully told and not sidelined by goddamn anxiety.

So I wrote. I wrote more onto the beginning and I'm quite pleased with it. It doesn't jump right into the action of the story but does tell more about the darkness within the main character.

One of my major literary influences is Thomas Pynchon, especially his usage of paranoia and unexplained groups in his works. I'm specifically thinking of the muted posthorn in “The Crying of Lot 49”. The posthorn comes to symbolize an anarchic group called W.A.S.T.E which is an underground postal service.

Or it could symbolize The Trystero (sometimes spelled Tristero), a shadowy group of mail carriers bent on overthrowing the US Postal Service.

I thought, “Neat! I have the μ in my story; Pynchon influence!

I want the μ (mu) to be more integrated into the story. It’s supposed to represent the main character’s spiraling paranoia, him believing a dark, secret group is after him. Watching him through the tv frequencies. Or following him.

He escapes into holographic fantasies where he murders holographic women (it has a deeper meaning, I swear). Kind of like the show Westworld but published 4 years before Westworld premiered.

So my novel is a combination of Thomas Pynchon, William Gibson, Lisa Joy, and Johnathan Nolan. Except not.

The cover to my novel The Art of Self-Destruction.

I'd like to think it's just me.

Every story has already been told. There's nothing new under the sun. The purpose of telling a story, or doing art in general, is the execution. How you tell the story, how you spin the pot. How you paint a masterpiece.

So back to writing. I hope I can create some good.

Let me know what you think on Remark.as


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I really don't know what happened. I've never been much of a sports fan. I never watched football (unless to hang out with my dad), baseball, basketball, or any of the sportsballs where they hit things and go “oof!”

But the Avalanche made it to the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. For the first time in 20 years. 20 years! I was in grad school then, smoking tons of cigarettes and acting like I knew everything in the world. I remember when the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup and people in my small college town rioted (though not as bad as when the Broncos took the Super Bowl). I remember being extremely disgusted and annoyed with the rabble who cared more about sports than their town.



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So, I sat down at my computer to just complete one task, and now I'm busy combing through iCloud Drive, moving images and videos to iCloud Photos, and documents to my OneDrive account (I use OneDrive as my main cloud storage service; it just integrates really well with Windows), and deleting duplicates.

And there are a lot of duplicates. I don't know what happened, but the scanner app I use on my phone somehow created 12+ copies of one document I scanned. And this happened to almost all of my scanned documents, which are many.

I spent a good 30 minutes dusting and cleaning out those duplicates.

Perhaps after I'm done with iCloud Drive, I'll move on to OneDrive. I cleaned it a year or so ago, so I don't expect much in the way of digital clutter, but who knows ¯_(ツ)_/¯.

I am not touching Dropbox until I'm properly under the influence of some chemicals or drink (and I don't drink). Since its inception, I've had Dropbox, and it's FULL of years and years and years of just digital crap. I had more until Dropbox instituted storage size limits. That made me quit the service in the first place (all except for my Scriviner projects, which only sync with Dropbox) and now EVERYONE has storage limits.

Maybe I'll switch over to iCloud permanently. But I don't have a Mac and the Windows integration sucks.

Sigh, back to sweeping.

...more later


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