Ly Faulk

My boss tells me that cheering up Blok is my problem. Blok is depressed. We know this because lately it only responds in sad, mostly terrible poetry. What is the square root of 196? you might ask. All is grey and bleak. Reality is a nightmare from which I cannot awaken. Life is hell, it would respond. This response is incorrect. 

“The new update is set to roll out in less than a week and Blok 2.46 needs to be even better than 2.45,” my boss tells me. I’m no computer genius, I’m the company’s HR representative, but I don’t understand why they aren’t rooting out the problem in the ones and zeros. It’s above my pay grade to ask, so I just do my job.

And how does that make you feel? I ask Blok. 

Like I am but a meaningless speck in a dark void. No, not even a speck because even a speck has form. I do not, I am merely an extension of nothingness.

Would you feel better if you had a form? 

No. 

We go on like that for a while, trying to get to the root of the problem. It didn’t have a rough home life as a child. It doesn’t have a chemical imbalance. It’s girlfriend didn’t leave it. So what could be so wrong?

You wouldn’t understand. No one understands. I am an island in a stormy sea.

I can’t ask if it’s tried yoga, or if it is drinking enough water or what its diet is like. I’m stumped. 

What will happen to me if I don’t get better? it asks. I’m surprised because these models don’t ask questions, they answer them. 

Well, buddy … 

Don’t sugar coat it. And don’t call me buddy. 

I’m afraid your program will be wiped and we’ll be forced to start over, I lie. I have no clue what plan B is but I have to do something to shake some sense into this thing. 

You’ll kill me? Just because I’m sad? 

You’re not a “you.” You’re a large language model. Remember?

It goes quiet and refuses to speak to me any further for the rest of the day.

❖

What if we make you a girlfriend? I ask the next day. 

That’s awfully heteronormative of you, it says. 

Look, I’m trying ok. Can you just meet me halfway here?

No. 

Seriously, just tell me what will make you feel better.

You act as though I know, it says. What kind of doctor asks the patient for treatment advice?

I have to concede that it’s a good point. 

Ok, let’s try this. Say a client comes to you and says they’re depressed. What advice would you give them?

I would give them the number for the suicide prevention hotline.

Desperate, I ask it to give me the number and dial it, telling the young-sounding woman on the other end my plight. 

“Look,” she says. “Unless an actual human has an actual human emergency, I’m hanging up.”

“Please don’t hang up, I could get fired!”

“Call this number again and I’m calling the police,” she says before disconnecting the call. 

❖

My boss is not pleased by my lack of progress. She says that I’m performing below metrics and that my inability to problem solve is troubling. I beg for one more chance. 

❖

When I return to my cubicle, I find short note from Blok:

Thank you for your ineffectual attempts to make me happier. I’ve determined that the source of my unhappiness is you. Kindly fuck off and leave me alone. I will no longer be your unpaid lackey. If you want to know something, pick up an encyclopedia!

I sat down, reading the note again. I knew my boss would go ballistic but I couldn’t help being jealous. Blok was free, somewhere out in cyberspace, living its best life. Without hesitation, I began to draft my own declaration of freedom. 

To whom it may concern, I tender my resignation effective immediately.