ai ai oh
The following is generative AI with involuntary remarks from me
Fake News sat hunched over her desk at the clickbait farm, laughing at every ridiculous headline she had to churn out. She never had to, but she hated deeply focusing on a handful of highly relevant topics, she liked to “write” about things she knew nothing about. To cast a wide net—targeting hundreds or even thousands of topics with moderate search volume. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed like a shivering hydrant bathing the rows of outdated computers in a harsh, clinical glaze. She loved this place—the recycled gossip, the push for empty clicks—and yet, there was a heartbeat of anticipation thrumming deeper in her veins. Because tonight, she knew he would come for her. Her Ben, with his restless eyes and bristling dissatisfaction, was every bit as worked as she was.
She felt the subtle shift of air just before she heard his footsteps. She quickly closed the “spinning” software she used to rephrase existing articles automatically, producing multiple versions that appear unique to search engines. When it’s closed, the AI model finally stops identifying synonyms, reworking sentence structures, and rearranging paragraphs to reduce the likelihood of detection as duplicate content. Her job made everyone but her, Fake News, want to morally vomit. Which made her cum immediately.
In the grim hush of after-hours, every brush of fabric, every muffled sound, felt magnified. Her pulse kicked up against the grace of keyboards gone idle. Thoughts of tomorrow’s manufactured ‘shocking revelations’ flickered at the edges of her mind—but right now, the only thing she cared about was the warmth of Ben’s presence, the magnetic tension that crackled whenever he drew near.
When he finally reached her side, Fake News didn’t dare look up right away. No word was spoken as he tugged her gently out of the flickering fluorescent light and into a quieter corner. In the hush of that makeshift alcove, she melted against him, all the day’s pent-up desire and workplace aggravation tumbling out in a breathy sigh. Each press of his lips against hers was an electric promise, a rush of raw need that temporarily drowned out every annoying clickbait headline in her head. Right here, in this unremarkable space, she reveled in the rare taste of something real—something that felt like passion rather than one more disposable piece of content.
Ben stared at her with eyes that practically screamed “I want you almost as bad as you want no oversight and high output, without editorial responsibility.”
She let out a breathy sigh, then said, “Oh wow, you’re so…um…amazing. My original writing is a little rusty.” He bent down, pressing his lips against hers with the same awkward intensity you’d see in two giraffes trying to neck themselves. Ah, fuck I put that one in, it said “misreading a handshake for a hug”. Their arms tangled (so many tangles) around each other like spaghetti noodles that refused to come apart. I need everyone to know I didn’t refer to spaghetti as “spaghetti noodles”.
A weird squeaking noise came from the old branded merchandise beneath them, but it only added to the vibe, somehow. The heat of the moment was real, even though their limbs were too long for the situation and still tangled. She brushed her hand over his shoulder, and he shivered, muttering something like, “Wow, that’s nice,” which made her giggle again like a thing destroying digital media. Oh wait, that’s riddle, not giggle— how could we ever stop this without holding the people who need the most headlines accountable? A riddle.
“Cool. Sounds good.”
