The Vulva of Russia

"I think the results speak for themselves," a grieving father

I had a terrible headache Wednesday morning, my sister messaging me later, before the American dinner hour, that she wanted to give me money. Fuck that. Between our aunt and our father, the debits for the fact that I paid my younger siblings mortgage from the bowels of my nigger habitat twelve years ago have been paid. She has four children. Two have had significant conditions. I told her to let it go. The headache was a trade off in concession to my age: I had been running the air conditioner, to which my Mediterranean constitution rebels, believing a stroke was imminent. I shut off the machine, and the cranial tension eased.
 While Otto's comatose body riled the fourth estate, I evaluated Oscar Isaac's death scene as reasonably effective in Ex Machina, though my immediate objection resides as it always does in empirical observation. We attribute anthropomorphic characteristics to artificial intelligence, perhaps for dramatic anxiety, but this is Deep Blue against Kasporov, processors, circuits, pulses. Conditionally, its future self awareness may not contain a minimal personality, so why is Google hurling along? Why do we desire machines to survive our eventual extinction? I was merely revising an old piece, stopped myself, logged on for archaeological data, made an FB page and appointed my baby half brother administrator, just hitting his forties. I may have adapted to Twitter's utility, but social media is dangerous, and I hate it. I really do.