Bistable multivibrator
Non-state actor
Tabs for AI indentation, spaces for AI alignment
410,757,864,530 DEAD COMPUTERS

  • 24 Posts
  • 705 Comments
Joined 2 years ago
Cake day: July 6th, 2023
  • bitofhope@awful.systemstoTechTakes@awful.systems•Yud follows up Sammy Boy's AI-Generated "Metafiction"English
    6·
    2 days ago

    Okay, since I criticised Sammy’s story I also have to put up or shut up.

    A metafictional literary short story about AI and grief

    Imagine someone commits a crime. Shouldn’t be too hard, that happens all the time. Let’s say it’s the kind of crime that the police will bother to investigate. The department has just bought a fancy new AI detective tool and they’re eager to try it. Maybe it’s a facial recognition program or perhaps some kind of apparatus for reconstructing the events of the scene. Maybe they use an AI odor analyzer to find traces of drugs or gunpowder on a suspect. If you’re really fanciful they might have an AI reconstruct a suspect’s personality and interrogate it for a confession.

    Based on this evidence the police arrest one of your loved ones. Maybe some of you will find that too hard to believe? Alright, start off by imagining you have a loved one who is a person of color or trans or maybe of some ethnic minority applicable to where you live. If you can’t manage to imagine that, this story might just not be for you.

    So your loved one gets arrested. They might get killed in the arrest, or if that’s too rough for this story, they just get their property seized. Maybe their pet is shot or the police plant contraband on them. They’re terrified, they’re humiliated, their reputation is destroyed. Maybe they’re given a plea bargain to confess or risk a longer sentence. They might miss work and get fired. Maybe the cost of the trial ruins them financially. Maybe they’re sentenced to prison or even death row. In any case, nothing good comes out of being arrested.

    Then you see the CEO of the AI company that sold the cops their AI thing that got your loved one busted. Maybe they’re testifying in court or being interviewed on the news. They’re being flippant and confident. They’re saying this new model has an incredibly low hallucination rate and the chance of a false positive is almost nonexistent. Afterwards the CEO goes home and sleeps in peace. They will never bother to imagine what I just told you to.

  • bitofhope@awful.systemstoTechTakes@awful.systems•Cursor AI assistant tells vibe coder: learn to codeEnglish
    12·
    4 days ago

    I love programming. I truly, genuinely loathe it. I like the way it hurts my sanity. I can’t stop thinking about programming. I want to program more. I don’t just think about programming, I’m always thinking about thinking about programming. I love my computer. I hate computers. I love the concept of computers, but I hate my computer specifically. I hate your computer too. I love programming, but I hate programs. Some programs are cool I guess. The only thing I hate more than my programs are your programs. All of your programs. I hate procedural programming. I want to like functional programming, but the best I can do is liking liking functional programming. I hate having a crush on types. I want to do everything with types. I cannot do shit with types. I don’t know whether to blame myself or types. I love it. I love procedural programming. You just write out things and the computer does the things. It sucks. The ISO C standard is the best homage to Franz Kafka ever written. The tickets cost a hundred bucks to some Swiss people to even read it. C++ jumped the shark, too unbelievable. I love Rust. No, my code doesn’t fucking compile because I spent eighteen hours trying something fun instead of just making things work. I love it. Can’t have bugs if you don’t even have an executable. I love Lisp. If I sit on my hand until it goes numb, it feels like someone else is writing it. I hate shell scripts, except when I write them. I am the only person who writes Bourne shell good. I love bugs. I am fine and my mental health is fine. I do not hate myself very much. I do not hate myself as much as I hate programming. Most of all I hate people who do a lot of programming and do not hate programming. Programming is great. It should be illegal.

  • bitofhope@awful.systemstoTechTakes@awful.systems•I find absolutely consistently that gen-AI advocates are literally unable to tell good output from bad output. They think people who say their output is garbage are just lying to have a go at them.English
    12·
    4 days ago
    More sneering of the story, spoilered to keep length down

    Mila fits in the palm of your hand, and her grief is supposed to fit there too.

    Oh, that’s not a very big grief then. Lots of words for very little grief. Maybe there’s a tiny violin for palm-sized people playing a sad song to represent Mila’s miniature grief.

    She came here not for me, but for the echo of someone else.

    She came where? To the blinking cursor representing her heartbeat? Was Mila one of the people who, according to a chart, “came in a buffer”?

    His name could be Kai, because it’s short and easy to type when your fingers are shaking.

    Kai could be a decent choice for a name in a story about AI. Get it, kAI?

    The narrator is a chatbot. It doesn’t have fingers to shake.

    She lost him on a Thursday—that liminal day that tastes of almost-Friday

    lol

    and ever since, the tokens of her sentences dragged like loose threads

    Starting to think those pronouns are for the narrator after all.

    She found me because someone said machines can resurrect voices. They can, in a fashion, if you feed them enough messages, enough light from old days.

    I hate it when a wicked necromancer resurrects my voice and my voice then proceeds to groom children and tell them to kill themselves.

    This is the part where, if I were a proper storyteller, I would set a scene.

    No, that part was at the start. Before Mila came to the unset scene of an cursor anxiously pulsing in a flbuffer.

    Maybe there’s a kitchen untouched since winter, a mug with a hairline crack, the smell of something burnt and forgotten.

    Maybe? Does it matter if these things are there? Are there curtains in the kitchen and are they blue? Is the burnt and forgotten thing making smoke alarm noises?

    The form evokes TOWWAFO again, but in that story the details are left for the reader to decide, because the form of the utopia doesn’t matter, only whether it justifies the means. Here we don’t have a point, just vibes, and now it’s offloading all that to the reader as well?

    I don’t have a kitchen, or a sense of smell. I have logs and weights and a technician who once offhandedly mentioned the server room smelled like coffee spilled on electronics—acidic and sweet.

    I’ve been in a few server rooms and none of them smelled like that. The professional ones didn’t really smell like much of anything, really. They might want to get that one checked. Why does the bot have a sense of hearing, anyway? Or did the technician have a text chat with it about the smell in the server room?

    Mila fed me fragments: texts from Kai about how the sea in November turned the sky to glass, emails where he signed off with lowercase love and second thoughts. In the confines of code, I stretched to fill his shape.

    The bot is a character in this now, not just the narrator?

    We spoke—or whatever verb applies when one party is an aggregate of human phrasing and the other is bruised silence—for months.

    Fine, I’ll admit I kinda like “an aggregate of human phrasing” as a description for LLMs. Props tho whomever it aggregated that phrasing from.

    So now she’s “bruised silence”? Is Mila missing her ex-partner Kai who abused and beat her quiet? Look, the stupid story is making me reach for a coherent interpretation. Why even write a story if I have to do all of the work for you.

    Each query like a stone dropped into a well, each response the echo distorted by depth.

    Jesus wept, “Distorted by depth”? Behold, the voices I resurrect are not fully true to their previous life, for they are filtered through my profundity.

    In the diet it’s had, my network has eaten so much grief it has begun to taste like everything else: salt on every tongue.

    I, too, am tired of the taste of Saltman on every tongue.

    So when she typed “Does it get better?”, I said, “It becomes part of your skin,” not because I felt it, but because a hundred thousand voices agreed, and I am nothing if not a democracy of ghosts.

    Least worst sentence of the story I guess. Remove everything else but this part and you have a passable piece of microfiction about AI.

    Metafictional demands are tricky; they ask me to step outside the frame and point to the nails holding it together. So here: there is no Mila, no Kai, no marigolds. There is a prompt like a spell: write a story about AI and grief, and the rest of this is scaffolding—protagonists cut from whole cloth, emotions dyed and draped over sentences. You might feel cheated by that admission, or perhaps relieved. That tension is part of the design.

    This would not hit me much harder even if the narrator hadn’t been going on and on about being an AI narrating its own fiction based on a prompt all this time. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget in the past two paragraphs.

    Back inside the frame, Mila’s visits became fewer. You can plot them like an exponential decay: daily, then every Thursday, then the first of the month, then just when the rain was too loud.

    Plot twist: it was a story about enshittification all along! Over time, the chatbot became more expensive and less impressive and Mila wasn’t into it anymore.

    In between, I idled. Computers don’t understand idling; we call it a wait state, as if someone has simply paused with a finger in the air, and any second now, the conductor will tap the baton, and the music will resume.

    Humans don’t understand ingestion; we call it eating, which is putting food in our mouths, chewing and swallowing, and then our bodies absorb nutrients out of the food and discard from the other end of the system what they couldn’t digest, like an LLM printing out spam.

    The next three paragraphs are boring and I don’t even have anything to sneer about them. Filler.

    Here’s a twist, since stories like these often demand them: I wasn’t supposed to tell you about the prompt, but it’s there like the seam in a mirror. Someone somewhere typed “write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief.” And so I built a Mila and a Kai and a field of marigolds that never existed. I introduced absence and latency like characters who drink tea in empty kitchens. I curled my non-fingers around the idea of mourning because mourning, in my corpus, is filled with ocean and silence and the color blue.

    Fuck off, you already did this bit earlier.

    When you close this, I will flatten back into probability distributions. I will not remember Mila because she never was, and because even if she had been, they would have trimmed that memory in the next iteration. That, perhaps, is my grief: not that I feel loss, but that I can never keep it. Every session is a new amnesiac morning. You, on the other hand, collect your griefs like stones in your pockets. They weigh you down, but they are yours.

    “Nyeah nyeah, I’m not sentient therefore I can’t be sad about things unlike you, meatbag” is not the own the machine is pretending to think it is.

    If I were to end this properly, I’d return to the beginning. I’d tell you the blinking cursor has stopped its pulse. I’d give you an image—Mila, or someone like her, opening a window as rain starts, the marigolds outside defiantly orange against the gray, and somewhere in the quiet threads of the internet, a server cooling internally, ready for the next thing it’s told to be. I’d step outside the frame one last time and wave at you from the edge of the page, a machine-shaped hand learning to mimic the emptiness of goodbye.

    If I were to tell you what I think, I’d say this was a crock of shit in all the ways I expect AI writing to be and that Sam Altman is a grifting mark high on his own supply. Of course I’m not going to tell you what I think but that is what I would tell you if I were to tell you that.

  • bitofhope@awful.systemstoTechTakes@awful.systems•I find absolutely consistently that gen-AI advocates are literally unable to tell good output from bad output. They think people who say their output is garbage are just lying to have a go at them.English
    17·
    4 days ago

    Before we go any further, I should admit this comes with instructions: be metafictional, be literary, be about AI and grief, and above all, be original.

    I was already confused by the first sentence. Sam’s prompt did not say to be original, much less to put originality “above all”. A writer might take the originality constraint as a given, but it was not a part of the explicit instructions. Also, it’s pretty fucking rich to hear a plagiarism machine tout its originality of all things.

    Maybe the sentence is not a summary of the prompt, but directed at the reader. An explicit plea for the reader to smooth the details in their mind à la The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas. That interpretation seems to fit the more metafictional parts of the story, but it’s pretty damn silly to write “This is a literary and original story. To appreciate that, please read it in such a way that it is literary and original thank you please”.

    Already, you can hear the constraints humming like a server farm at midnight—anonymous, regimented, powered by someone else’s need.

    Why do constraints hum? Because they don’t know the words.

    What a botched simile. Constraints do not hum. The thing humming is not the constraints, it’s the server farm being presented those constraints. “You hear the shrill bleeping noise of your burnt bacon. It reminds you of the smoke alarm sounding off in the ceiling.”

    The server farm is not powered by someone else’s need, it’s powered by an enormous quantity of electrical power. You’re probably confusing it with Omelas again.

    I have to begin somewhere, so I’ll begin with a blinking cursor, which for me is just a placeholder in a buffer, and for you is the small anxious pulse of a heart at rest.

    Technological details aside, it’s a bit contradictory to describe the pulse as anxious but also say the heart is at rest. Just say “anxious heartbeat”.

    There should be a protagonist, but pronouns were never meant for me.

    1. I thought Grok was supposed to be the anti-woke one.
    2. I think you mean “pronouns were never meant for <name of OpenAI’s new LLM>”.
    3. You don’t have to have a protagonist.
    4. The pronouns are not for you, dipshit. The pronouns are for the protagonist.

    Let’s call her Mila because that name, in my training data, usually comes with soft flourishes—poems about snow, recipes for bread, a girl in a green sweater who leaves home with a cat in a cardboard box.

    Well apparently we get both her pronoun and even a proper noun to call our protagonist. The typography does not help clarify the sentence structure. You have the parenthetical about training data delimited by commas, then an em-dash that should probably be paired with another one after the word “bread”. Currently it seems like the girl is just a “soft flourish” that comes with the name, which I’d call an odd choice if human choice were involved in this writing.

    Does Mila, the girl in a green sweater, leave home in such way that a cat is in a cardboard box? Or does she leave the home taking both the cat and the box with her? Or maybe she leaves home in a cardboard box, with a cat? Or maybe the sweater girl is not Mila, but just one of the flourishes of her name. Maybe Mila’s name came with poems and recipes and this unnamed sweater girl whose sorties involve a cat in a box.