OH F-CK, THE ROBOT WROTE IT BETTER...

I have some tough news to share: the robot is better than me.

Not in a distant someday they’ll take our jobs way. Not in it’s just a glorified thesaurus way. I mean better-better. It doesn’t get tired, it doesn’t need coffee, and it doesn’t spiral because someone unsubscribed.

Recently, I asked AI to write a humorous essay in the voice of a woman navigating modern life. Purely experimental. It returned something structured., cohesive, crisp. There was an arc—an ARC. A beginning that set up a premise, a middle that escalated cleverly, and an ending that landed with what I believe is called “resonance.”

You heard that right—resonance.

I’ve been blogging for seven years and I’m still aiming for mildly amusing with a soft close. The robot, meanwhile, produced something that sounded like it had both an MFA and a Peloton.

It didn’t wander. It didn’t, in the midst of a hormonal shift, open seventeen parentheses and forget to close twelve of them. It didn’t abruptly pivot from satire to an earnest reflection on mortality because my kid walked by in pajamas and I got distracted by the concept of time. It stayed on theme. I’m pretty sure I never stay on theme.

For research (or masochism), I asked it to “write about competitive parenting culture with wit and insight.” It delivered something that read like it had attended three Upper East Side birthday parties and survived. The metaphors were tight. The tone was sharp but compassionate. It made a joke about Sant Ambroeus pricing that I admit I wish I’d written.

That’s when I felt it: the specific nausea of realizing your replacement doesn’t even need childcare. The robot does not wait for quiet to think. It does not need to negotiate with itself to sit down and write. It doesn’t take a handful of m&ms, re-light a candle, take a quick phone call, or decide to quickly reorganize a drawer first.

It simply produces. And quickly.

Do you know how long it takes me to write 800 words? Long enough to question every life decision that led me here. The robot does it in seconds. Seconds!! With confidence. I, meanwhile, require a playlist, a perfectly cold drink, and the illusion that no one needs me for at least 45 minutes, plus a mild identity crisis.

I used to believe writing was sacred because it required humanity — flaws, contradictions, the kind of layered nuance that only comes from being alive and occasionally unhinged.

Now I’m not so sure.

The robot can simulate nuance and it can generate vulnerability. It can nail the self-deprecating aside and the observational humor that makes a reader feel seen. I asked it to “make it warmer.” It made it warmer. I asked it to “punch up the ending.” It punched. I asked it to “add more voice.” It added voice.

Excuse me? What exactly have I been cultivating all these years?? Was it just a vibe? A fragile ecosystem of personality that can now be downloaded?

There’s something humbling about watching a machine approximate your inner monologue. I pride myself on noticing things: the absurdity in group gift chains, the existential dread of perimenopause, the quiet despair of assembling a school project at 11:47 pm. The robot notices, too or i should say it convincingly pretends to.

And that’s when it hit me: maybe this isn’t about talent. Maybe it’s about stamina.

Because here’s what the robot does not have: fear. It doesn’t worry it already wrote that joke in 2019. It doesn’t wonder if it’s becoming repetitive or irrelevant or too earnest. It doesn’t hesitate before hitting publish. It cannot be embarrassed.

And unfortunately, embarrassment is 40% of my creative process.

But here’s the inconvenient truth that settled in after my brief spiral into technological despair: the robot can write something polished. It can write something clever. It can even write something structurally superior to whatever I’ll produce today.

But it cannot WANT to.

It doesn’t wake up with the itch to articulate something messy and unresolved. It doesn’t care if the sentence sings. It doesn’t feel the strange relief of capturing a moment that felt impossible to describe.

If this essay flops, I’ll feel it. If it lands, I’ll feel that too. The robot will feel nothing.

Which, frankly, sounds relaxing.

Still, there’s something deeply human about sitting down to wrestle with a thought—to circle it, fail at it, and try again. To let it sit for a day and realize the ending that, moments ago you loved, was wrong all along.

The robot doesn’t second-guess. But second-guessing is where I live. It’s where doubt and memory and perspective and humor and insecurity all mix into something that, occasionally, feels honest.

AI will never write something slightly uneven but undeniably real. And maybe that’s the point. The value isn’t in being the most efficient generator of polished prose. It’s in being the only one in the room who actually cares.

So yes, the robot probably already wrote something better than this. But it didn’t create it.

It didn’t stare at the ceiling first. It didn’t wonder whether it should even bother. It didn’t feel that small electric thrill when a line finally clicked into place.

I did.

And until the robot can spiral, binge on girls scout cookies, overthink, care too much, and then still press publish, I think I’m safe.

At least for today.