Please machine, choose my words

Tofu_product. What Would I Say. Liveson. These are the parrots of our own creation, robots designed to mimic speech used on the internet, fashioned after the patterns you allow them to access, your syntax clothed in algorithm. They are imperfect translations of your running thoughts; or at least the ones you post to Twitter and Facebook.

Wishing i were in crooked lines on my house.

fortunately i’ll get to support small businesses. Am massively confused.

the fact that

It’s a fun game to play. For me, they’re quite accurate. They sound like me, drunk.

Fat Van Gundy? Skinny Van Gundy? Dare I even prouder to be the next Friday, i feel better!

New article on financial markets are approaching a close, here’s a gallery of Pau Gasol and Kobe Bryant hugging to find that

Sometimes, they get a little sad.

i look exactly the same Spanish conquistador heritage makes me

They are incomplete, badly stitched together thoughts. The mind moves quick to assign a narrative.

These put my salads to shame.

One questions the sorts of things that they share to lead a robot to such paths.

Unitards, beer, subtle homoeroticism all

Yes, this is a real status generated. I’m not sure why.

Yes, it’s addictive, but instructive too. We learn the fractal versions of our public brain, or so we think. And yet, it’s nothing new. We love to choose things that choose for us.

MASH, Choose Your Own Adventure, and Ouija boards have been selecting our paths for us children of the 90s for years. We love it, only now instead of full stories we get poems made of smoothies of our myriad status updates about our everyday lives. But why do we share?

We boast, to show everyone how awesome we are:

Being real boujie, gettin our culture on a movie kick

dear 9th and my bitches

Philosophize, in an attempt to impress and connect:

Nick Offerman is anyone

And admit our faults, in an effort to get the girl/boy:

can’t keep in the nation, but in this

All within the confines of a status update, scrambled in mystery and sureness at once. You can’t help but shake the feeling that you’ve said exactly that, before. Or meant to.

Sometimes, the machine says it better:

parks and cry, my breath. I started a boring ride! So I’m going to end