Anna Ursyn, Wires
The Two Beakers Theory
Risa Nyman
In deluded youth, I squandered my happy juice on stupid things:
A bougie bike,
An accidental A in algebra,
And a delicious, tantalizing prom kiss.
Years flowed, and I got too generous with the pour:
On a fleeting, prestigious promotion,
A brief weight loss triumph,
And an amazing deal for a showy new car.
Now the decades have doubled and redoubled,
Creating wads of wrinkles,
Twisted toes, god-awful gout, and janky joints,
All frosted with a head of murky memory that can’t remember the happy.
And my happy beaker, once lusciously full, squeaks drier than a fossilized something-saurus.
Not my fault. No caution to be judiciously happy.
Even a cheap mattress gets a better deal with its lawyerly warning tag.
I was left naked and unprepared.
This response from my freakin’ computer peels my heart:
“Revise and resubmit, or AI will do it for you.
Only clever, complicated sentences will be accepted!
And you, a most unhappy soul, show some humility when you ask me for help.”
“Okay, I was stupid, I did stupid, I am stupid.”
Is that a sufficient grovel of guilt, you despicable piece of software!?
Stop flexing your chips at me!”
I should blend your nerd brains with a bit of chopped garlic and salt.
You flicker your screen flirtatiously at me, and demand I rephrase. How funny.
You could rephrase, rewrite, or whatever the hell you require
Better than my middling mind, which is banged up like an old car ready for flattening.
Hack me a hack or crack me a code to replenish my happy.
You give me no choice. I resubmit my question to the savior of sinners.
I wait for AI’s wisdom, holding down a palpable panic trying to vomit out of me.
AI answers: “Happiness gone, used up, not a smidgen, a strand remains. No refills!
But your other beaker has gobs of sad sauce for your dying days. Enjoy.”
Enjoy? You are a sick, sarcastic bastard, AI.
Defeated, timid tears travel my cheeks as AI adds:
“Do you require more information about beakers or stupid things,
Or instructions about how to live sad? I’m here for that.”
Risa Nyman
In deluded youth, I squandered my happy juice on stupid things:
A bougie bike,
An accidental A in algebra,
And a delicious, tantalizing prom kiss.
Years flowed, and I got too generous with the pour:
On a fleeting, prestigious promotion,
A brief weight loss triumph,
And an amazing deal for a showy new car.
Now the decades have doubled and redoubled,
Creating wads of wrinkles,
Twisted toes, god-awful gout, and janky joints,
All frosted with a head of murky memory that can’t remember the happy.
And my happy beaker, once lusciously full, squeaks drier than a fossilized something-saurus.
Not my fault. No caution to be judiciously happy.
Even a cheap mattress gets a better deal with its lawyerly warning tag.
I was left naked and unprepared.
This response from my freakin’ computer peels my heart:
“Revise and resubmit, or AI will do it for you.
Only clever, complicated sentences will be accepted!
And you, a most unhappy soul, show some humility when you ask me for help.”
“Okay, I was stupid, I did stupid, I am stupid.”
Is that a sufficient grovel of guilt, you despicable piece of software!?
Stop flexing your chips at me!”
I should blend your nerd brains with a bit of chopped garlic and salt.
You flicker your screen flirtatiously at me, and demand I rephrase. How funny.
You could rephrase, rewrite, or whatever the hell you require
Better than my middling mind, which is banged up like an old car ready for flattening.
Hack me a hack or crack me a code to replenish my happy.
You give me no choice. I resubmit my question to the savior of sinners.
I wait for AI’s wisdom, holding down a palpable panic trying to vomit out of me.
AI answers: “Happiness gone, used up, not a smidgen, a strand remains. No refills!
But your other beaker has gobs of sad sauce for your dying days. Enjoy.”
Enjoy? You are a sick, sarcastic bastard, AI.
Defeated, timid tears travel my cheeks as AI adds:
“Do you require more information about beakers or stupid things,
Or instructions about how to live sad? I’m here for that.”