AI, Ayee, Ai Ya Yah! – a Feminist Essay


I woke this morning after dreaming of Ayahousca.  I suppose it isn’t all that unusual for a lady of my age:  I was growing up during the sixties.  The LSD years.  The Timothy “tune in, turn on, drop out” Leary years.  There was a time, kiddies, when people wanted to learn about what was going on inside their skulls, back when there were people searching for meaning in their lives and in their world, back before the struggle for existence became so all-consuming.

But, I digress.

I am writing, today, about how I brought Artificial Intelligence into my life, into my very living room, and how it has made my life infinitely better than it ever was.

Because all my friends had done so, I married a man, forty years ago.  All those other marriages failed and my friends had second and third marriages, lovers, or opted to living alone.  Not me:  I kept my husband around.  In many ways, it was like having a dog.

Except, unlike a dog, he didn’t shed.  And I didn’t have to pick up the yard after him.

He was a compliant fellow, always there, sitting in the recliner watching television, always quick to get out of my way and to compliment me.  I would share with him the exciting events and relationships in my life.  He would nod and agree that I had lots going for me.  I would chatter away like a happy chipmunk, while he would mute the television and pretend to listen to me until I ran down.

Once in awhile, he would try to tell me something.  But, I would be quick to shut him off.  He was really very stupid, very childlike, in all of his ways.  When we first got married, he thought we would continue to have sexual relations.  Ha!  I straightened him out on that in short order.  Soon, he became my gelding, my eunuch, my testosterone-filled toy.  I suppose he was frustrated.   But, that was his problem.  I always told him he could leave.  He was too lazy to do so.  So, we stayed married until he died.

He got cancer.  It was his bad habits that killed him.  Goodness knows…..  I tried to tell him that he was killing himself.  At least he would take my orders and smoke only outside the house.  And I always made him take off his shirt when he came back inside.  Summer or Winter.

In short, he was pretty well trained.

So, when he died, I thought, I’d like to keep his memory alive.

Do you remember Roy Rogers?  How he had his horse Trigger stuffed and displayed in the Roy Rogers Museum?  That seemed bizarre to many, but it seemed like a great tribute to a pet, in my mind.

I guess you know where this is going.

So, I had my dead husband stuffed and mounted.  His carcass sits, as he always did, in the recliner, television remote-control in his hand, frozen smile on his face, and eyes that follow my every move.  Just like Billy Bass, the famous wall-mounted fake fish, he responds to me.  Only, instead of having to push a button to get him to talk (and, thank god, he doesn’t talk about his stupid things), whenever I enter the room, its eyes light up and its head turns towards me. in animatronic anticipation of my every mood.

It compliments me on my looks, on my projects, and on my plans.

Because I put a one-million-dollar life insurance policy on him, I now live like a queen.  Honestly, my life has never been better.

I’m going to check with a travel agent right now, to see about a trip to Peru.  I can afford it.  And I am anxious to tap into my unconscious mind to see just exactly how wonderful I really am!

Love you

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About rosewater12

I am in hiding.
This entry was posted in Essay, memoir, Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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