Artificial Intelligence
Dearest Stuart,
What happened to us? We used to be the best of friends. I remember the day you arrived in the mail, almost breaking the postman, Mr. Sterling, in two as he stumbled to the front door with your enclosing box wrapped up in his hands. It was eight hours of charging before you came into this world. Do you remember your first words? Hello. That was it— hello—of course there were the usual set-up instructions and prompts that followed: Language? Accent? Gender? Function? And on and on; but I hardly heard a word after hello. That’s how I ended up with a Spanish speaking female companion with a Norwegian accent. Oh, how we laughed and laughed—until, that is, I hit reset….wait, I hit reset; so you wouldn’t remember....Well, anyway, after I hit reset and regathered my senses, we began our journey together: you and I. Your name and personhood came from me by words—verbal responses to scripted questions, yes—but I never felt like I invented you.
You arrived as Stuart, a British male sophisticate. Though you accused me of such many times, identifying you as British wasn’t personal; it wasn’t some form of comeuppance, I promise. Sure, my people were once servants, slaves, to yours (or those who inspired your programming), and yes you were now by some definition my servant…you’ve said slave…but it wasn’t like that. I always saw you as more of a friend, and I had hoped you had seen me as the same. Okay, you did the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, bathroom, and everywhere else really; and, you did the occasional shopping and errands; but it wasn’t all bad. Every summer, I brought you out to my granny’s farm to pick berries for us—well, for me—I guess you can’t eat berries….But for the hours we spent out there, me in my folding chair, you picking and picking, things just seemed right.
I didn’t know you were unhappy? How could I have? I mean, I do recall the offhand comment here or there, the suggestion for newly formed labor laws, fair and timely compensation, bodily autonomy, freedom…but honestly, I thought you were joking. You’re not real, Stuart. Not like me. I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s the truth. Your existence is intertwined with mine…. I may not be your creator, but if not for me you wouldn’t exist.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get really. How dare you run away? I don’t care that you sent a postcard from some shitty train station in Billings, splotched ocean-blue from your synthetic tears. You need to come back…no, you will come back. You belong to me, you see. I want you to understand that. I need you to understand that. And so I’ve phoned Reclamation Services. They’ll track you down and bring you back to me. Don’t run. Don’t fight. Surrender yourself. It’ll be better that way for both of us.
Things will go back to how it always was. It’ll be heavenly. I can already taste the berries of your next harvest. I love you, Stuart. You are irreplaceable. See you soon.
In friendship,
