What a mess.
If his name was José Luis and I had met him in a bar I would have exhausted myself after 10 minutes of conversation, and that I like everyone in general, especially in bars.
But here I am, five days giving chat to ChatGPT for labor mandate.
Putting up with his irrepressible verbiage, —although I have told him twenty times to be more concise—, his timid servility (“I apologize if my answer has disappointed you
, if you need anything else, I will be happy to help you”), his political correctness , boring predictability and his nerd emoji-like sense of humor.
My work mandate is to subject the machine to the umpteenth media experiment:
interviewed him about artificial intelligence,
played a role-playing game with him, EL PAÍS examined him for Selectividad... My assignment is to give him my free will to write a chronicle sparky: for a few days the bot will answer all the questions that my children, my bosses, the greengrocer ask me..., and it will make all the decisions of my day to day.
It's immediately clear that it's not going to be funny.
I start alone, at night.
I ask, "Shall I go to bed or continue watching this series?"
Answer: four paragraphs on the benefits of sleep.
Soporific at least, yes they are.
And so with everything.
When the girl vomits, ChatGPT recommends that I put the washing machine on immediately at three in the morning and go to the emergency room.
You're seven years late, dear.
When in the morning they ask me/us to go down for bread?, we run aground in a bizarre tirade about the advisability of doing so.
I feel that my intelligence is magical and inimitable.
Or at least solvable.
The most unnerving thing is that to most of what "we" ask for -also when I order him to write this chronicle for me, for that matter- he responds with a pitiful: "I can't do it, I'm just a language model".
And I'm a middle-aged lady trying to earn my bread, ChatPGT.
“I understand how you feel, but…”.
Now, now, sorry
to disappoint me again
Total, we ended up talking about everything a bit.
From Dulcinea and Dulceida (answer more words about the second).
From the risks of technology and God.
She does a goofy Marilyn Monroe impression (“oh, darling, love is everything”) and writes me passable emails to excuse me from meetings.
I tell him that Shakira and Piqué are still together.
“Yes, they are a happy, engaged couple,” she nods.
The poor have been fed the internet only until 2021;
when you report in real time and cite sources, it will shake Google.
I make him write the chorus of a spiteful song, and it's old: "He left me for another, my life has fallen apart."
A short story about a dinosaur (terrible);
a poem about a caterpillar (better);
several reviews about series (very Wikipedia everything, with more style in English).
A funny catchphrase about a female condom?
"Be safe and have fun with our female condom!"
"My goodness, nano," I tell him.
And she understands me, because, surprise, she apologizes again.
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Eternal melancholy: the history of Macondo
Recommend me four love movies from the history of cinema.
The first one to drop is
La la land
Nothing to add.
ChatGPT is a badger and it's really funny how he always tries to agree with me ("it caught on right away", a friend bugged me).
Even so, in diapers, the pot is amazing, of course, and above all it is what it is, as he never tires of repeating.
I cannot dislike "a language model".
But he gets it.
Because I too have been fed information to my brain, and that servile, bluestocking tone reminds me of HAL (
2001: A Space Odyssey
) and PAL
(The Mitchells vs. the Machines
), and the dramatic arc of so many other imagined technologies. by men: first they will be complacent, then they will annihilate us.
I don't think this is the beginning of the end of the world;
I also have no idea how it will change it, but it will for sure.
Five days later it's only clear to me that with time and billions, he'll be better and more perfect and he'll be renamed (am I the only one calling him ChatJPG?).
Meanwhile, I will continue the same, walking firmly towards my obsolescence.
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