Are We Training AI

 Very not hot take: I can't be the only one not excited about posting anymore because it only feels like we're training AI. 

How to be funny? How to empathize? How to have a normal number of fingers? 

Besides my regular daily dose of self sabotage telling me that it's all been said, it's been done, blah blah blah, there's battling the daily upheavals of my body, and then the question of your socials aiding and abetting in the training of AI FemBots to trick incels in their "He-Man Woman Haters" basements sending Bitcoin to GiveSendGo. 

I ain't got time for that. Nor the energy. 

Are we past time for caring? Has every post and every blog I ever wrote just a cog in the big AI machine now? Do we all unplug our social faces and only communicate through texts and messages? Snail mail. The answer is snail mail and books. Probably.

Guess this not very hot take was longer than I anticipated. 

An additional not so mini take, I'd like to think I'm capable of calling out AI videos or writing every time, but no doubt it gets past me. Oh, and yes, I have used the AI search option on Google and Bing while looking up a recent health diagnosis. I've probably shared AI. Hit the love and like buttons. I can't be some innocent AI purist. I think being online at all prevents that. 

The fact is an AI data center that will produce the energy equivalent of 23 atomic bombs every, single, day, is going to be built in my backyard. It is horrifying. 

There's also the incels.

Chronic Newsness

I purposefully avoided the news and all the socials for many days. I'd go in bouts. Sign on for a minute, then runaway. Everything was too much. Too costly. Trying to exist inside this body daily is exhausting enough, adding the apocalypse on top of it is crushing. 

I miss being silly. Ridiculous even. 

I want to scream and cry in rage. I also want to hug everyone and cry from joy that I'm so loved and that I get the privilege to love. 

I might go on another news fast in a day or two. I might inundate your feed with scorn and bitterness.

I also might try to find my glimmers and share them.

Stephie 20

Today marks 20 years since my Stephie left. Twenty years. It's forever ago and just yesterday. I can still hear her last breaths. Feel her tiny hand in mine.

The 20th Anniversary for Hurricane Katrina is at the end of this month. It happened a few days after her funeral. She was buried in a lovely purple casket, because, of course. 💜

After the funeral and during the days of Katrina coverage where I was numb and dumbfounded that the Earth was still spinning, the same thought kept running through my head - "We got the privilege to bury her, a gift so many in Louisiana will never receive."

Twenty years later. Countless personal and worldwide catastrophies piled up and piling. I still think how grateful I am that we got to say our goodbyes in such a loving way.

I'm also thinking a lot about the gift of my continued life. That I survived Cancer, when she didn't. I'm surviving every day with my other disorders. I truly enjoy being alive. Even when it hurts.

I enjoy remembering Stephie. Even though it hurts.

Golden Memories

 When I was between the ages of 8-10 (possibly younger) I would make little books for my dolls. I'd illustrate and color the inside. Before I had my big fancy dollhouse that my Mom commissioned specially for me, I would build dollhouses out of Golden Books. Rooms with doors and second floors. The Golden Book Dollhouse would take up the entire floor of my bedroom. I would leave it up for days since it took so long to build. Then, when it was time, I would meticulously dismantle it. With care. 

I miss that quiet play. The focus of doing nothing else but creating something that was mine only. Even if it was only for a short while.

I still have the books that I made for my dolls.

I still have the memories. 

Sun in My Ears

Little girl outside riding her scooter on the sidewalk is going back and forth in front of my window. 

She's singing "E.I.E.I.O" over and over in a loop. 

I can hear her at the end of the sidewalk quietly, all lowercase. Then the closer she gets to my window it's all "e.i.e.IIIIIIII.OOOOOoooo." 

The clacking of the scooter wheels punctuating each letter. 

Glimmers. Always glimmers.

Fo Sho

 Okay, story time: 

The waiter at our go to Shanghai Cafe is a ridiculous flirt and funny.

Last time I was there he caught me doing a check in on my credit card and my big huge balance was on my phone. He asked if I was investing and I just laughed it off and said a hearty NO!

Today, he asked what we were doing for the afternoon after my doctor visit and then lunch. We told him Trader Joe's because they refuse to go North despite all my wonderful advice. Mister Waiterman suggested I just invest in them and then take over the whole company so they do my bidding. 

Then me, being me said "With my name being Heidi, I'd change it to 'Trader Ho's.'"

He thought it was hilarious. 

My Mom, not so much.