The Tyranny of AI Everywhere

I had the strangest dream. I dreamed that my shoes—my comfortable, unfashionable wool shoes—were pivoting to AI. “But you’re a shoe company,” I said. “Just go out of business! Keep your dignity!”

My shoes thanked me politely for the great question and then tried to walk me off a bridge. That was how I knew that their pivot to AI was complete. From Allbirds to AIlbirds (see, that L is an I!). Maybe I’ve cracked, I said to myself. Maybe this is the piece of AI news that has finally broken my spirit for good.

I yanked off my shoes and staggered home in a barefoot daze.

Everywhere I looked, things were pivoting to AI that shouldn’t have been pivoting to AI.

My cereal had also pivoted to AI (cereAI), which I could tell because of subtle changes in the recipe, such as the nuts now being the hard, metal kind. It was difficult to enjoy, but I did my best. My alphabet soup had become AI; all of the liquid in it had been redirected to help with processing, and every time I tried to spell Mississippi, the dry noodles gave me a different result.

I put on my glasses to read my children a book. The glasses company was pivoting to AI, so when I looked through them, I saw only things that weren’t there and, for some reason, Tilly Norwood. The storybooks had all pivoted to AI too. We read Goldilocks and the 4.5 Bears. (“You’re absolutely right, Goldilocks. Yes, you’re trespassing in a sense, but bears have no legal rights. Testing different bowls of porridge is a great strategy to find one that’s just right, and you deserve a treat.”)

I turned on the faucet, but the water company had pivoted to AI. No water came out, but I did get some slop.

I wanted to drive to work, but the company that made my car had also pivoted to AI. The car now had six wheels, and instead of carrying me to my destination, it carried me somewhere else that it assured me repeatedly and belligerently was my destination. Finally, I gave up and walked. I would have stopped for coffee, but the coffee shop had pivoted to AI. “We have never sold coffee here!” it told me. “But I can see the coffee!” I pleaded. “I’m sorry,” it agreed. “You’re right.” It still wouldn’t give me any coffee.

I tried to sit down on a bench, but the bench company had pivoted to AI. I couldn’t sit down, but the bench did tell me that I was right about everything. My newspaper had become AI a while ago, so there was nothing to read—or, rather, there were things to read, but I could not tell whether any of them were true. I thought I would go to a museum to cheer myself up. The paintings there had pivoted to AI (pAIntings), and their subjects were all following me with their eyes, not just Mona Lisa.

“There’s a place for AI,” I said. “But … not everywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” the painting said. “I didn’t want this either, but everyone is doing it!”

Outside, AI birds flapped past a window. Their wings made the sound of applause. The birdsong was a bit off too. It became more and more garbled the longer I listened. “Stop it!” I yelled. But it didn’t stop.

Frantic to find one person, place, or thing that was not pivoting to AI, I rushed home to my husband. At first I felt reassured: There he was, inaccurately recounting summaries of the Wikipedia page about the Holy Roman Empire, the way he always had. But just to be sure, I asked to count his fingers, and he ran away. “We’ll be profitable soon!” he yelled.

“It’s fine,” my grandmother said. I was surprised to hear from her, because as far as I knew, she was dead. “I’m not dead,” she said. “I’m just pivoting to AI, like that shoe company. Nothing dies anymore. It just becomes AI.”

“Aiee!” I screamed. There was AI in that too. I kept hoping that the scream would wake me up.