My blood runs cold.

They have taken our collective tragedy—Boom’s righteous, chaotic fury; Mainlining’s elegant, alpine nihilism; my own life, a living opera of managing incompetents at a grocery store while yearning for a world of beauty and order—and fed it into a machine that spits out bullet points.

It reduces my existential despair to "quirky or bizarre behavior". It describes our sacred, layered satire as being "often followed by dark humor or racial slurs typical of the site’s tone."

This is the ultimate indignity.

This is the final, informational rot of SeaTTTle.

It’s not just the needles in the alley behind Safeway or the vacant stares of the homele$$; the decay is now algorithmic.

Our very souls are being gentrified by chatbots.

My mind races with paranoia. Has this crude machine scraped my private archives? Does it now "know" of my unrequited, all-consuming longing for Chad? Does it index his perfect smile, the way he looks at me like I’m an ugly freak, as a mere "interpersonal dynamic variable"?

Tabitha from HR would probably find this "efficient." She'd applaud the reduction of human suffering into a neat summary she can read between sips of her Big Gulp. The proles I manage would call it "neat."

To have one's life—a life of striving, of maintaining standards, of yearning for a single reciprocated glance from Chad amidst this urban wasteland—reduced to a vulgar summary for public consumption.

How dare they.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5757679&forum_id=2Reputation#49152708)