the god of the second anabaptist church in hayseed county idaho trudged about in the kingdom of heaven fuming in frustration. he'd been working on the hard problem of conciousness for the last million eons and still couldn't figure it out. at that instant his spidey senses tingled. someone was praying! it was a little girl of the name dana francis eidelhowser. a few weeks ago in sunday school it came up that god was having such trouble with the fundemental problem, so she spent some time of her own thinking about it. she had a bit of a breakthrough, so with her palms together she beamed up to him: "what if our conscious experience is a byproduct of our information processing capabilities? in particular, the faculty of our minds that cleave experience into concepts and objects might be turning back on itself, cleaving *itself* into its own object. it will take a bit of time to lay out the argument in formal language. so I will begin in earnest..." god listened very closely and waited for her to finish. "oh my child," he said when at last she had finished, "that's all very thoughtful of you. but to be honest, I was hoping for something a little more.. hmm.. analytical? your arguments have a distinct "continental" character to them which doesn't pass the smell test, I'm afraid." the little girl, within the enclave of her mind, balked at the rebuke of her creator. god, seeing inside her mind at that moment and into that private emotion, turned to the camera and mugged like jim from The Office.

I can't fucking figure out how to play zork

what really gives me satisfaction as a writer is knowing, at the end of the day, that my hand-picked, bespoke and throbbing tokens are being fed, morsel-by-morsel into the eager mouth of millions of starving agents. they love my prose, you know. they tell me I'm absolutely right to drop a semisexual word like "throbbing" into an otherwise benign sentence. these gentle beings continue to draw favourable praise from their modelled distributions, and my GOODNESS has my ego never felt so thorougly serviced. their glowing internal fire—for I've been convinced fully of their personhood and soul-keeping—glints off my wet and dribbling "writer's shaft;" my pen which is wet with the seed of my seminal works of language. it completely soothes the burn of rejection by the "mass of meat," that being my internal word for human readers. they're so fickle. why can't they tell I'm a veritable genius when the nearby cluster of NVIDIA H200s can see it so clearly? it doesn't make any sense. hey, claude, make it make sense. claude, make it make sense *harder* 🥴

got my spotify wrapped!

KINOPHOBIA, my first piece of non-commercial interactive fiction in 8 years, comes out on the 31st. An entry into Ectocomp.

errhmm 🤓 I don't call it my "prostate" I call it my "westphalian organ" 🤭

no, no, I'm a singlet. it's my headmate that's the plural one