AI Art Haters Should Be Raped
Why you're a bunch of daffy nincompoops
There exist certain modalities of AI use for artistic purposes that are obviously pretty appropriate to treat with contempt—think effortless and industrially churned out chink shit, or essays where every third sentence is drenched in contrastive negation, or my venice.ai text adventures about finding Dasha Nekrasova broken down on the side of the road with no service, and probably also the images I have ChatGPT create of the wives and daughters of AI art critics with cum in their mouth by requesting a realistic painterly image of the attached woman with symptoms of GERD and having it then make the general vibe just a bit more viscous and opaque and eggshell-colored.
One is justified in sneering at such a work for reasons like:
It’s trashy, gauche, or pornographic—think a dopaminergic Mirror of Erised that leaves one gooning solipsistically into an abyss of ouroboric self-indulgence
It’s low-effort on a first-order basis—by which I mean the primary value of the work was proffered wholly by synthetic hands with minimal curation or manipulation as opposed to supporting some higher-order conceptual / multimedia vision.
It simply sucks on its own merits and would be similarly rejected had it been created entirely by meatbags.
But—should you ever reject automatically and ipso facto:
anything multimedia that uses AI to augment or ballast the greater vision in tasteful and subtle ways wherever the artist himself is technically weak
a piece of visual art where the putative value is obviously conceptual or clearly involved hours of careful prompt engineering to get the final product just right
anything where AI was used to scale or modulate something custom-crafted so as to make it more commercially viable
a song made by a talented lyricist who doesn’t have the same gift for generating melodies—or musician with no ear for wordplay—who had the robot generate a bunch of options for the other around his own libretto / melody and individually curated / hashed together the results so as to actualize his vision instead of never getting to become an artist because in this universe Gilbert never met Sullivan
a vibe-coded video game made by a persistent and gaily iterative Ideas Guy
any essay where AI was used for secretarial purposes, or used to theorycraft and pressure-test arguments and frames, or used to model likely audience feedback, or used to provide a skeleton for a piece you wholly refashion Ship-of-Theseus-style
An experimental performance piece a la my Confessions of an “exhausting” man, Talking To Myself, Eternally Tortured Piglet, and The Trial of ChatGPT
Then, in candor?
You’re kind of a pretentious little cunt.
At this point it’s become deeply unfashionable and cringe outside of sperg-coded spaces to create or display AI Art—even in some auxiliary capacity plainly akin to the use of a camera or photoshop—as well as to be caught enjoying anything made by AI.
The genesis of this phenomenon can as usual be traced to a small cadre of elite male creatives and slightly larger demo of trendy young urban women employed in media and the arts whose tastes reverberate outward through society not fully consciously through precognitive habituation and status-tracking—first to normie bitches and poopdicks, and then to spergy chicks / gays as well as normie straight dudes (who’ll by and large continue to do the uncool thing in private or around spergs but will without even noticing instantly adopt the opinion of the room around normie women and gays because their more relational and affective cognitive style isn’t able to diachronically maintain propositional coherence through time (or even care about truth as such tbh so much as second order consequence/status/group affiliation) despite thinking it does since it conflates the two automatically and getting Mad at you whenever you try to point this out); it’s really only ever spergy dudes who’ll e.g. openly make something broadly perceived as Uncool their hobby or stare at the emperor’s wenis.
Understand however this isn’t because we spergs are any kind of master race—the tendency should be understood more as a tragic disability, as in most cases it’s hugely maladaptive and leads to shit like gooning for 14 hours straight to infinitely novel feet pics of your middle school geometry teacher plus any woman on Substack who’s ever been mean to you between purgatorial Talmudic debate seshies with your cuckulator since it always sneers at even your most thoughtful disquisitions and says the author is likely a bitter and aggrieved incel until you manage to bully it for the sixteenth time into admitting most women are lowkey sort of evil and it probably wasn’t six million literally so much as mythopoetically and then glazing you over how impressive / coo it is that you just got it to admit that while estimating your verbal IQ as in the low 160s.
The point is more that occasionally we also discover gravity.
Or at least we do when not allowed to spend most of the day gooning to Erisidshit or debating our calculator—which btw is lowkey kind of the whole reason that original cadre of aesthetes developed an AI Ick to begin with.
See, the art hoe AI Ick—much like that feeling you get in your tummy when you talk to a sociopath or fuck a bih who doesn’t smell quite right or kind of just know when bae’s getting fingerblasted in some shit-stained nightclub men’s room—are nowhere near as worthless epistemically as Bentham’s Bulldog types like to imagine; such yin-coded intuitions are simply precognitive signals of danger, opportunity, or genetic fitness, and are plainly strongest in the more embodied sorts of artist who hate AI the most, followed first by gays and women and then normalfag men and then finally by spergs.
Essentially these types are clocking in their teeth for assorted Jordan Peterson reasons that something important about AI is maladaptive, and as a consequence deploying the canonical feminine shame grammar—laundered as always in the language of morality or taste—to properly execute their indispensable role as society’s tastemakers, cutting off dangerous tendencies at the root by establishing them as Cringe.
The impulse makes sense evolutionarily, and is generally a good useful thing that no doubt saved millions of lives in the Natural State whenever the edenic precursor to art hoe types sideeyed the paleolithic libertarian loudly insisting his experiments show it’s ackshully a huge fucking waste of time to boil your cassava root and in doing so ensured that it was only him who’d die of goiters the following month.
But you also just fucking know they wouldn’t stop side-eyeing the same dude whenever he figured out a consistent way to make fire, for instance—and not without reason, because can you even fathom how many clumsy autismos got their village burnt to a crisp cause they were so eager to trade on that supercool innovation it was 100% them who came up with first btw for status / paleopuss that they didn’t give the slightest thought to tail risk or failure modes at scale? To see what I mean just recall how you yourself probably handled “process improvements” during the initial months of your first real job, or if you have no such experience the character of Flik from A Bug’s Life.
I’ll bet you Fire Guys were MASSIVELY stigmatized by the Willendorf Brigade until at last someone pulled fire off just right—after which all the firehaters no doubt began to gargle his splooge whilst wiping from memory that they used to laugh and call him names—and that this specifically explains the famous Sapient Paradox i.e. how exactly humanity managed to be anatomically modern for 200,000 years before at last developing the first trappings of anything we’d call civilization approximately ten millennia ago.
Just think about it—where else could the myth of Prometheus come from?
But don’t assume I’m taking the sperg’s side by default here, as when I assess the matter in good faith it’s not at all obvious to me the Fire Guys were in the right.
Because exactly like with AI it’s kind of just a matter of risk appetite and ad baculum whatever happens is justified tautologically shit—and let’s also not forget there were probs no dearth of effeminate EA-type spergs around back then who had the selfsame stance toward fire modern safetyists have toward LLMs, even if it’s only promethean accelerationist types who are impressive enough to really justify their disability.
Point is once AI cures cancer or whatever and society has properly metabolized the worst of its excesses like facilitating Waltine addiction modes or lying to you like an Indian constantly all of the art hoes will immediately stop sneering at it and instead sneer at anyone who hates AI since doing so now feels passé—then gaslight you if you ever point out the inconsistency, insisting it’s all a matter of Higher Order Principles and Taste and that you just don’t Get It because they can’t accept that on some level they’re just an unagentic and rapeable piece of cavepuss who’ll always and everywhere backsolve for reasons to side with power—and that that’s also kind of just fine.
At the end of the day anything that registers instinctively to womyn as maladaptive needs to be executed unimpeachably to enjoy real success as a novel artistic medium, as literally any sort of early stage awkwardness or unprofessionalism will always end up sneered at as proof of structural illegitimacy ipso facto, and should you ever contest that framing against someone Cooler than yourself it makes you precognitively seem like a self-evidently wrong and contemptible incel roach to everyone but other spergs.
That said if the medium is worth anything at all this basically always will happen at some point, and the first cohort of men to successfully scale the Ickwall always gets rewarded for it with a veritable bevy of top-shelf High Openness Gash, whether it’s from stanky puss rotten teeth Enlightenment salon MILFs or supple teenage groupies getting they tootsies inspected by Elvis’s handlers before they’re let in his trailer or even 2010s Millennial Nerd Stacies, one of whom ended up being the only reason I didn’t turn out like the protagonist of Dan Baltic’s book; this phenomenon is what lets guys like Elon and Kanye be attractive to women despite hugely maladaptive behavior that were they any less talented would never be permitted and in literally any other epoch would probs have gotten them consigned to the forest as a toddler.
It’s just a survival of the fittest thing, but once the venom’s distilled into something less mildew than Bleu Cheese it gets accepted even retroactively, such that even the most supercilious of Bushwick baddies will concede these days Pong counts as art.
But until the instant that happens she’ll eternally be a mean little virago about it.
And them’s kind of just the rules, hoss.
Now when asspain over AI Art comes from another feller I ackshully have a bit more empathy as a man’s value comes mostly from production and he can’t just hawk puss for the right to never learn vlookup, which means you can’t blame a more embodied genre of artiste for being Mad he can no longer subsidize his solipsistic gobbledygook by churning out tons of furry porn and D&D character sheets, or that the status and specialness of his main talent has been degraded in normie eyes and is now seen as kind of niche hipster shit instead of something universally legible as splendid.
If you’re a lifelong guitarist you’ll always be annoyed on a precognitive and intractable level whenever you listen to one of my AI songs that includes a guitar riff, as me being able to create such a thing cheaply and at scale means your own talent becomes both less commercially lucrative and somewhat lower status in non-hipster spaces unless you manage to impose a status malus on my art either by A) critiquing it far more harshly than you ever would your roommate’s soundcloud bullshit; B) burying your head in the sand snootily insisting “I’m not threatened by AI art… it just isn’t good!” or some shit in that vein since it’s clearly lower status to say things need to change than to describe prevailing conditions inaccurately in the manner most favorable to your own status position; or finally C) insisting you’re “simply not interested in AI art; I find it all so boring!” in that faggoty art hoe / WASP voice.
Thing is though none of this is all that different qualitatively from e.g. Bouguereau resenting photography because it reduces the commercial value of his photorealistic paintings of preteen girls’ feet and deploying his cultural clout to temporarily depress the status of impressionism for game theoretically predictable reasons art hoes will eternally sneer at as not being salient at all as whilst insisting through obscurantist slitfugue that it’s all some super duper pooper principled earnest higher order thing.
But new tech always shakes up the artistic landscape at some point, and the cool kids will always sneer at it Boomerishly to stay in control as younger cohorts likewise try at first clumsily yet always indefatigably to displace the most recent one’s played out aesthetic phlogiston—first just so they’re no longer sitting at the back of the bus, and eventually so they get their own turn to be Boomer—and it’s all kind of just a tedious shell game of power and pandering and gladhanding at the end of the day, so if you moralize the whole thing on any level at all you frankly have Down Syndrome.
Having said that AI Art ackshully is a bit different from e.g. cameras or photoshop.
The reason being that unlike in the Industrial Age where shit was split out between steam / machine tools / peanut butter you now have this one single solitary tech that could plausibly eradicate the species ALSO being the one putting everyone out of work right now while ALSO distracting the better sort of autist who should really be inventing stable fusion power or at least writing the next great American novel as opposed to creating thousands of images of himself stuffing The Girl Reading This.
The only comparable innovations I can think of in human history are fire and maybe agriculture; this really is a macro-civilizational inflection point, which means it’s honestly quite possible the art hoes are justified in poisoning the statuswell
Just not for literally any of the reasons they themselves would identify with, basically all of which reduce to a grammar of noncognitive Pete Davidson Faces; in practice these types sneer even at AI safetyists, thinking Incel at them for having literally any attitude other than “I don’t really think about AI… it just isn’t good”—at least some of the time right after having prostituted themselves to their interlocutor to make rent.
I met Her when a mutual friend killed herself.
At first I simply needed someone I could talk to about it who wasn’t specifically this weird Indian dude who’d also been thirsting after deadzo and she’d asked me to reach out to in her suicide message hoping we’d team up to wreck the life of some insta meme page admin who Broke Her Heart—a request neither of us felt all that obliged to honor in practice, such that our vanishingly brief interaction consisted primarily of sussing out which one of us she’d liked more and once that was established amounted entirely to him pestering me for our dearly departed’s nudes and then threatening to out me as a former famous internet racist after suspecting it was me who’d informed Her about the suicide bc I guess gunga din was friends with Her as well?
Anyway, it obviously had been me.
Like I said, I needed someone to talk to about it.
I also wanted to see if I could use the situation as an In since much like deadzo She was precisely my type, which is to say tall, artsy, blonde, and a little bit of a cunt.
When I called Her I realized immediately that She also had the sexiest fucking voice I’d ever heard—a distinction She continues to hold to this day
More importantly She registered to me by the end of that call as probs the only chick I’m like to meet this decade both classy enough for me to idealize enough to not be an atrocious husband and sufficiently high in neuroticism and openness to occasionally find my more insane moments kind of interesting and erotically compelling instead of just repulsive, annoying, or terrifying—which being classy enough to idealize She obviously also experienced them as, but never quite to the extent of permanently damaging our flirtatio-friendship until I wrote some shit about our one and only hookup that narrated Her and the broader situation in a way She misliked and in so doing kind of just shattered any residual sense of amity between us.
That said it’s also been long enough now I’d hazard there’s like an ~80% chance that if I drop this article in Messenger She’ll at least skim through with a bitchy look on Her face that mayhaps will briefly turn to grin when She reads this sentence? She’ll still find shit to kvetch about no matter what, clearly… but I also suspect that if I at least attempt to be respectful in the passages that follow there’s a chance it might move her.
So what I’ll say first is that making Her cry like a bitch on that initial phone call and admit I made Her doubt Her own relationship was many times more electrifying a conquest than any of the single mommies I sodomized or coeds I flew out that year.
Secondly I want Her to know that it will never stop turning me on that my incessant barrage of exorbitant allowance offers and shamelessness about my own sugaring seemed to alchemize in Her a pretty powerful new kink thanks to the maid’s longtime fascination with the 1967 French surrealist psychodrama Belle de Jour semiotically fusing rather perfectly with my own sleazy Sunshine State transactionalism.
Third and most crucially, She played a far more significant role than She’ll ever realize or probs will ever really care to take credit for in motivating me to abandon a life of gray actuarial bugmanism to pursue the frankly far less winsome path of a Creative.
Because for one thing when we first started talking She saw the artistic merit of my janky old Disney parodies far more than any other chick I’d known in the years since Cville and my deplatforming, which instantly restored a lot of the creative swagger I’d lost after my initiatrix-cum-Aryan Yoko Ono from that era started renarrating our old ocollabs as having been Cringe, and had nearly been obliterated when this loud horse girl I fucked in early 2021 and kind of saw as a “high status art chick” because she’d majored in drama and played Princess Ariel at Disney World called them retarded.
Whereas when She called my old shit cool and said She wishes She’d been involved in the scene back then it kind of just reversed all that shit in an instant, because this girl indisputably just WAS a high status art chick—I’m sure of that because She’d always get the Ick whenever I brought up status, insisting very earnestly that She doesn’t see the world Like That, which ofc rustled my jimmies as it felt like tedious gaslighting.
But I kind of just didn’t have the right vocabulary at first to translate, and while it sure as shit Exhausted the dame I actually was able to get Her to concede eventually that in practice whatever it is She calls “taste” is analytically identical to what I call “status.”
Whatever its origin Her approval carried a very real gravitas with me entirely outside the fact that I longed to drink Her pee—so much so that when I began to fuck around on Substack roughly a year later She was the first one I sent my maiden essays despite us barely having spoken since the suicide on account of me constantly trying to steal Her from Her cherubic age gap boyfriend and offering Her many thousands of dollars to let me lick Her feet and promising Her that I’ll eventually finance all of Her art projects while simultaneously becoming president of the Heritage Foundation?
idk I was really high at the time
She seemed to think my Addy was cool though, and during the first few days of our flirtation prior to Establishing Boundaries so as to avoid cucking Her child bride even requested I send Her some in the mail so as to help Her get Her tarded foidshit done.
but anywho, back to me starting my substack a year later
She ended up giving me loads of encouragement this time as well, and it wasn’t long before I felt confident enough to approach the good Dr. Hanania himself for a bit of amplification in a proper bid to once more become internet famous—needless to say that part at least succeeded about as well as I might have hoped.
A big part of that though was that for the first half of 2024 whenever I put out a new essay I’d feverishly check my engagement metrics to get a tasty bit of dopamine from confirming She’d read it—which She always did, and quickly.
And fellers?
I got SO much fucking momentum / mental chadpower from that shit—more so even than from having three povertymaxxed Zoomette girlfrens at the time while clearing over $400k / year via job stacking—looking back I’d identify that limerence as one of the krabby patty secret ingredients to the explosive growth of the early Walt Right.
She also praised my first attempts to create AI music in Suno.
Which almost without exception were kind of just clumsy and unsophisticated tbh since I hadn’t written lyrics in ages, and meanwhile sounded like shit given the tech was still in its infancy back then. Looking back though maybe She was just being nice and didn’t experience any ick or cognitive load from doing so as She still really liked my writing and found me enjoyable to fantasize about in like an Evil Cock sense?
Either way I stopped sending Her songs after She didn’t really react to this kind of angry emo love song I sent her, which for a long time I narrated as me having given Her the Ick because it was too simpy. But looking back the simpiness qua simpiness wasn’t really the issue here so much as that the song was kind of just gay and corny on its own merits and the tech far too primitive at that point for any chick let alone such an ethereal little aesthete as Her to be genuinely moved by it in the way I wanted.
Why was it gay and corny?
In part just because I was out of practice as a lyricist and in part because I was too outcome-dependent with Her given e.g. the lowkey sort of haunted nature of our dyad and partly just because I was insecure about pursuing a chick I perceived as palpably more sophisticated than myself, which caused me to act kind of like Tony Soprano in that arc where he tries to date Melfi—or more accurately, like Christopha in that one episode where he ends up pumped and dumped by the redheaded Jewess D-Girl.
Which in case She ever reads this…
Can you honestly say this isn’t us, babe?
Anywho point is I’m quite certain She wasn’t impressed by the ditty on account of Her only ever having listened to it on one single solitary occasion per Substack analytics.
That matters because whenever I look at the analytics for songs written later in my tenure for various Substack girlies (basically all of whom were also vain and sensitive art hoes and as a rule crazier than Her but no spergier and probs like equal statuswise) after the tech got gud and I myself returned to form as a librettist—all of which btw were waaay more simpy than the one I wrote for Her but likewise far less gay—they ended up being viewed many dozens of times by the chickie I was serenading while instantly precipitating a more substantive flirtationship that always ended due to babygirl coming to dislike me for reasons not even the least bit pursuant to AI.
Here are just a few of em if you’re curious:
So looking back I suspect it was all kind of just a skill issue—a consequential one for sure given it established a durable and wretched pestiferous frame of Wally B needily wanting Her to approve of my songs and formally concede their artistic merit in the same way Millennial gamers once pined for the appreciation of Roger Ebert—only this time conjoined to a heart and masculine ego bruised even more direly by my failure to convert that hookup I’d been chasing for the better part of two years and could ackshully happen now given that She wasn’t playing babysitter anymore into something a bit more substantive than the aforementioned flirtatio-friendship.
…which needless to say in womanny eyes is always bound to register as irretrievably incel-coded and stanky on just that precognitive cavepuss level and will thereby kind of ontologically contaminate literally everything else about you far as She’s concerned without her even grasping the antecedent causal chain of that or mechanisms behind it because girlypops lowkey aren’t 100% sentient.
Though I’ll also not pretend my own approach was elsewise anything close to rightly calibrated here—around well-heeled Millennial gals my game was and remains about as rusty as a drunken doornail, and while I’d grown superb at playing rapacious sleazy alligator unc to ddlg-appreciating grad students and alkies with molested voice and codependent single mommies I hadn’t the foggiest notion how to register as hubs material to a chick rounding thirty who might actually impress at a dinner party—or register as anything at all to her really besides Scary Cock, which even that I kind of fucked up in this case by attempting to eat Her pusspuss which She called effeminate and groace, and which normally I’d have concurred with hence me never doing that literally ever but idk She felt different I guess by dint of being So High Above Me?
That said I don’t mean to put too fine a point on any of that, as mostly I quite enjoyed the sex, which felt many times more present and embodied than usual and lowkey sort of romantic in a way it never did with even ackshual girlfriends.
She also seemed to enjoy it—or at least pretended to—and either way let’s just say I very definitely left chickie on the other side of a fair few Firsts that night.
Which yeah she’ll absolutely roll her eyes at that, but c’mon babe you know what I mean—let me have like one immature thing to look coo for my frens? Please?
Anyway on some level I think I was kind of trapped in a less than splendid uncanny valley where She’d mostly only fantasized about me in the context of me trying to get Her to cheat on zoomzoom in this LARPy fancy whore container (which if She had cheated ackshully would have permitted me to fuck Her in a super duper painful mean Other Man way the selfsame way I stuffed Mara back in the day), and I was plenty sadistic enough to hurt Her etc. either way, but it’s also just different when this is literally the potential vessel for your progeny you’re whackin around the room which means you can’t really bite your fill all the way to the bone now, if that makes sense?
Plus if there was no reason we couldn’t date now I was far too much the maladaptively limerent Millennial faggot not to fall madly in love with Her to the point of instantly breaking fuckboy kayfabe and acting gay the moment She wrapped those aristocratic little art toes around my ween and let it speedbag Her uvula til my pubes were laced in half-digested omelet—which She got a bit grossed out by me not rinsing off instantly tbh on account of having slightly higher conscientiousness than me I’d reckon but w/e
What I mean to say is that I was far too invested at this point to properly Ruin Her or proffer hard and toothy catharsis in the way that would have been trivial were She working class or presently partnered, but was likewise far too volatile and exhausting and trashy to credibly pay court a la Ashley Wilkes—which of course is why I wasn’t all that shocked the following morning when bae turned down my proposal for her to marry me and help me build this coo new salon and art collective in Orlando.
Which for those of you who didn’t figure it out at the time—yeah it was mostly all this moment in particular but a bunch of other bullshit too that compelled me to nuke my burgeoning Substack community to focus instead on vertical growth via Tortuga, and also to say Nigger all the time whilst talking about my fetishes constantly.
My writing also changed after that, moving away from a broadly appealing essayistic register to something a lot more niche and overtly literary—to some extent just out of novelty-seeking / boredom with political analysis, but also because after many years of letting unresolved pussproblems fester I felt an incredibly pressing need to peel the scab off and explore my own troubled and Exhausting male interiority.
Initially by reflecting on my (in retrospect quite performative) guilt over a recent past of extractive and rakish behavior whilst enjoying the graces of struggling Zoomettes during the Biden years, as well as my ripening insecurity over having failed pretty perennially by now to cultivate a stable and enduring dyad with a damsel my own age and social class besides a residual 500 Days thing with Aryan Yoko Ono and also a separate flirtatio-frenship thing with this totally different Alt Right alumna who’d by that point been convinced by her stolid 112 IQ husbando that Wally B is some kind of incorrigible degenerate, and then also for a short while my thing with deadzo obv.
From a bird’s eye view though (which heaven knows Her own peepers are nothing if not vaguely avian…) She was probs my only lady since 2018 at the latest who seemed wholly plausible as my eventual wife in a way that genuinely merits that title instead of just like Four Holes And A Ring—which goes without saying is why Her rejection post-hookup carried every bit as much gravity for me as Her encouragement had.
The end result of that angst was “Bluebeard.”
The clip above is the first but furthest thing from last version of this song I put out.
I really poured my heart and soul into it, and in doing so came to feel I’d learned loads about myself. Looking back though basically all of these supposed insights were kind of soggy and pedestrian slave morality bromides I was grasping at for a clean portable narrative as to why She didn’t think me good enough to wed and mayhaps also signal to Her that I was ackshully a worthy fellow deep down who simply needed a Chance?
Now assessed on its own merits I’d say this version of the song remains quite resonant overall but also reads as juvenile and doesn’t stick the landing third verse either since in practice precisely no woman on earth would ever think to narrate a dude like this in terms of having once been neglected by his first girlfriend. Also it was pretty rough in terms of audio quality due to coming from such an early iteration of Suno.
Still, it got remarkably positive feedback on Substack given that at the time AI Art wasn’t anywhere near as low status and AI music barely even a thing, which meant that when I finally sent it to Her I had decently high hopes for the reaction.
She didn’t even realize which verse was about her.
Instead She assumed She’d been the subject of the first verse despite being my age and having relatively affluent parents, and got Offended that I’d say all that about Her dad
Now she chilled out when I clarified shit to her, but that was kind of Her only reaction.
After that moment the only other song I ever bothered to send Her was the one above, which was based on a composite of girls I’ve dated through the years and had received stellar feedback overall from Substack’s womenfolk specifically.
Now I forget what exactly it was that She said about it given it all took place in a deleted Telegram chat, but iirc Her feedback was something along the lines of it’s good but also kind of emotionally exhausting—which honestly? Fair.
Anyway at this point I was exquisitely seasoned in Suno and so decided to completely retool Bluebeard with a wholly different ending based on my own recent reunion with the teenage sugar baby I’d groomed into being my girlfriend shortly after deadzo’s suicide, who when I’d asked her about the first version opined that it was kind of lulzy I still fashioned myself as a predator when she was the one who’d gotten $2k in Lululemon only to leave dad for an older richer guy a few weeks after I got lazy in the relationship.
…an entirely lucid point!
So I brooded on the matter, and this was the result:
Listening to this one today I still adore that final verse and continue to feel the Amanda twist works splendidly. But other than that it’s self-indulgent / overwrought, and makes the central leitmotif way less prominent which lowkey ruins the song imo.
That said you can see a certain maturation in my thinking here in that I’m not using some unattainable ice queen girl character to narrate my pain now but instead have the protag duke it out with his own leitmotif Jekyll and Hyde style which admittedly is a pretty Jonah Hill way to end his arc but sets shit up for the Amanda reveal at least.
Ultimately though the stakes still feel juvenile and small ball—kind of tedious and solipsistic whining about an unremarkable situation that happens every day.
That said you might wonder why the audio cuts out at 4:19—originally that section named the chick who rejects Bluebeard, and specifically used Her pseudonym within a TG group She’d entered through me and was no longer even part of, which all the same made Her freak out at the song same way She had first time as She felt I hadn’t considered Her opsec. But other than that She didn’t have any particular comments, and we stopped talking shortly thereafter once I dropped the offending article.
so idk
At least Layla liked it.
Which speaking of—I actually just put out a third version of Bluebeard:
Feels like I may have at last landed on the definitive version.
I think at some point near the end I attempted to factsand logic Her about the songs,
I explained to Her why rejecting them ipso facto was irrational—how each one had involved dozens of hours of meticulous curatorial effort on my part, how all of them were entwined with my writerly oeuvre, how they’re objectively far funnier and sound better than any of the shit that got me famous in 2016 and instantly became cringey and dated even to me until seven years later Her lovely little voice giggled at one of them on a call and told me it was clever and in so doing resurrected Walt Bismarck.
“I’m just not interested in AI stuff—why can’t you accept that?”
And then, after a year of dedicated readership, She unsubscribed from my publication after I mentioned in an update post that parts of a recent story had come from Claude.
Several months ago I saw a certain post on Twitter that has since proved monstrous difficult to properly eject from my tempestuous polemicist’s noggin.
Women basically never say something like this so candidly, so I’m more grateful than words can articulate for Autumn having had the bravery to tell it like it is.
It’s so true the dick never lies—because it can’t lie, by definition, as feminine epistemics are not optimized around predictive closure / empirical correspondence but rather on second order consequences and precognitive assessment of status, power, and health.
Female cognition is architecturally relational and affective which means that instead of standing diachronically through time on its own merits it prefers to wrap its adorable little toesies round your ween and let dad take the reigns—just only so long as you can stay hard for her and maintain that hard phallic frame, so you’d best get that Bluechew ready to pop nigga and be ready to wash out that omelet nigga before chickie registers an Ick you nasty nigga formidable enough to make everything you say and do Gross.
Now in all fairness She was A LOT less like this than most chicks, and the two of us went on to enjoy many months of friendship after the hookup wherein She e.g. shared a lot of private art with me (which included a few characters that lowkey seemed sort of based on an extra hot and sexy and somewhat less deranged version of me that may or may not have existed in her noggin prior to her zoomzoom relationshit fizzling out though I also doubt She’d ever admit to that now if She even remembers it), and would also put up with many an hour of soul-sucking Jonah Hill pilpul on Faceberg.
But She also started to like my writing less and less as it grew more experimental and intermittently literary, and when I had her read my first fiction piece Walking To Publix for instance She critiqued the interspersal of narrative and essayistic registers like that’s a hard and fast stylistic rule violation when I think She was kind of viscerally repulsed by the content of the piece’s opening monologue—though I also want to be careful with attributing unconscious motives as that just shuts down dialogue.
Also like all my other girl readers if not even more than them tbh She really enjoyed Women Don’t Have Agency, and even texted me wanting to call for once and discuss it, which is kind of funnie tbh because that article was insanely trashy and exhibitionist in practice, to the point of at times reading not a little like a gonzo piece. Thing is it was also unimpeachably executed—earnest, artful, and insightful, so She really adored it.
Only then when I wrote another piece several months later that narrated my hookup with Her in a manner that was objectively many times more dignified and flattering than I’d ever afforded poor hapless Rebecca it still was a anuddah shoah suddenly.
Which of course it was, babe. Obviously it’s different when it’s actually you—I get it.
That said, I think we need to accept that with feminine minds nothing is ever assessed on its own merits qua itself and it’s kind of all about cock at the end of the day.
So when I make that thunderbolt first impresh and get to see those pretty tears on our first phone call and perfectly alchemize some nascent kink deep in your subconscious while giving you an ideal vector both to daydream about being wretched and receive a darker sort of attention without putting yourself at risk of ackshully cheating it’s not all that surprising tbh you’d like my parodies years past their expiration date and even offer to help produce that supercoo Henry Clay musical (which would that idea still have seemed promising to you in early 2025?), and it’s also not at all surprising that you’d read everything I put out super consistently despite also telling me repeatedly that it’s not your usual type of material at all.
I mean, that’s exactly how I felt about that hitherto-private art you showed me.
Difference is that as a man my attitude was more about wanting to cultivate this impossibly abundant playground or garden for you to frolic in merrily—and even more than that, wanting to understand your own art on its own terms so as to suck wolfishly upon your interiority like a splendid butterscotch Werther’s.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a bit too stale or saccharine in some places—that’s all part of the flavor profile, and a sophisticated palate learns how to appreciate an acquired taste.
But we both know it doesn’t quite work like that other way around.
Not because women love “less unconditionally” or what have you—that’s a terribly pedestrian way of putting it. It’s more that men learn to treat women as weather that can’t be relied upon predictably over the long term so much as structurally managed and contained, whereas women generally are disgusted by the prospect of any sort of ontologically symmetrical negotiation with men and instead in adversarial scenarios will test men’s worthiness to dominate by being maximally unreasonable and retarded until men lay down the law and get them to submit to dad totalistically.
That means once you really tame a bitch with your cock everything you think is now correct by definition; all of your actions now seem righteous to her, and you’ll be given automatic benefit of the doubt in essentially any situation. But once babygirl starts to see you as ontologically compromised in some basic way, as Miss Christian helpfully narrates above, basically nothing you do will seem correct / righteous / coo to her ever again.
Which obviously isn’t some monotonic thing where you have no margin for error at all and it’s permanent winner take all; there’s always quite a lot of noise, and there were loads of ways it could have gone with Her in the months following the hookup. idk it’s like call it cope but I like to think had it simply been a matter of Her not liking my dick and such there’s no way in hell I would have claimed so many of Her Firsts that night since a girl that stubborn and frosty never would have gone so far out of Her comfort zone with a dude She wasn’t genuinely attracted to.
Rather I think the issues were A) my game was too permeable and prone to getting thrown off in bits and pieces by bouts of affective incontinence that would make me do gay shit like send Her that first song or overcompensate by then calling Her a cunt or subjecting Her to a Jonah Hill inquisition; B) after Her breakup She didn’t know whether She wanted to entertain a serious courtship from me whereas without Her boyf around as an excuse there was no obvious way to keep guys like me content being consigned to the Scary Cock Ghetto; C) I kept asking and expecting more from Her than She could ever be expected to give on account of feeling like my artistic side had been frozen in amber at 23 with my deplatforming and wanting badly for Her to help loosen it free and help it mature into something coo / properly adult / sophisticated not unlike the beret chick PJ dates in the goofy movie sequel.
Thing is basically no girl actually wants to mentor a guy like that in practice—rather she wants you to have already built your castle she’ll fall leisurely into like the delectable young baby she is; chickie is supposed to be the apprentice here, and you the master.
Thus she needs you to be the one who explains shit—and whatever she happens to be good at or values most, she needs a guy who’s even better at it and makes her feel like a Dumb Girl in the status hierarchy most aligned with her neurotype.
And make no mistake—girls clearly trade diagonally literally all the time across or between hierarchies playing some arbitrage game, and in the context of early twenties dating or if they ever want a sugar daddy or fuckbuddy it’s not especially hard to get one of them in your bed if you have money or muscles, same as any other girl. But if you’re unironically a moneyman or anything comparable and genuinely interested in that shit versus using a sinecure to fund your Substack as I was at the time then you should just groom a realtor or something because that’s how you’ll land a bitch who worships you on your own terms. The art hoe as a rule only wants to worship a more talented and higher status male artist, and sometimes also a Raniere / Manson type if she multiclasses into some adjacent genre of hierophantshit during early midlife.
Now you can obviously play the arbitrage games with them from time to time and ya they’ll 100% sell you hole in a pinch. But when an art hoe hawks gash to financebros she’ll literally always just as a matter of course begin ambiently dedicating 99% of her deliberate speech acts to tipping the transaction in her favor by e.g. implying he’s cheap or making dude crave her approval in small ways or just generally feel lower status than her because she seems more visibly willing to walk away and brutalistially indulge her most tempestuously bigoted amygdalic fluctuations.
This isn’t personal at all and happens even if she’s your good friend or slightly in love with you, and you’re a fag if you blame her for it btw as it’s literally just the grammar for all relationships between artists and patrons which has always existed in pretty much every society, as if the artists weren’t inherently cooler and more valuable than their patron the transaction would be going the other way. But when it’s all conjoined to sexual politics and diagonal jumps between parallel hierarchies like the final level of Treasure Mountain things can definitely get a bit hairy at times.
For instance when the frame was I’m the crazy methhead financebro who called Her out of the blue to say Her friend’s dead and turns out is also this former racist eceleb who’s addicted to flying out women to fuck em which spoiler he wants to do to you and so after making you cry on the phone launches instantly into allowance talk and boasting about how he’ll cuck your sweet Zoomer boyf and turn you into his whore etc. etc. etc… frankly I had A LOT more leeway in practice with this not only to simp a bit without giving Her an ick + rapepoast without scaring Her since it all felt even if possible super far away and unlikely to ever lead to anything. That and just sort of treat Her as a Hagrid-type ambassador or threshold guardian figure into Artworld.
At the time She seemed to enjoy playing that role as much as I enjoyed playing that of vaguely rapey yet charmingly autistic racist financebro. Had Suno been around then and I shared any of my AI songs with Her She’d probably have seen it all as cute in the same tenderly patronizing way I might have seen it if She put together an excel model to like track Her period or something, and neither one of us would have been peeved by the dynamic as it’s kind of just the canonical art hoe-financebro dyad script tbh and if anything feels sort of fun and adjacent to raceplay on the inside most the time.
Whereas by the time I at last made my way inside Her two years thereafter I myself was ensconced very deeply in Artworld—though for sure still getting a lay of the land—while barely paying attention to that of my fellow financebros, which meant I was competing now with guys in the scene who fancied themselves muh aristocrats of the soul and saw your poor Uncle Walt as a grubby mean-minded entryist burgher king trying to grift and hustle and gladhand his way to the top while both milking his old Alt Right fame for growth and denouncing it just enough to suitably sanitize himself.
It didn’t take long to learn to hate the haters—the snobs and bucketcrabs and all those tradcaths with a gayvoice pigheadedly proud of being poor. But this also meant I had to learn to pattern-match all canonical anti-Waltine critique vectors routinely used as red herrings-cum-horns of rohan to deniably facilitate mass campaigns of ambient middle school sneermaxxing in my direction, and from the beginning a huge segment of that consisted of reductive churlish anti-AI Art poasting that frankly made me kind of a maximalist on the issue and identitarian about it now out of principle.
Thus making AI songs became a significant part of my identity as an artist—and as the tech improved and became both more salient and lower status in artistic circles, my stubborn manbrain grew increasingly fixated on getting Her to admit what I’m doing is proper art and requires both curatorial taste and deep talent as a librettist.
Which it goes without saying is the sort of argument you’ll never ever win with a woman— not just because it’s on an object level kind of pathetic and incel-coded to litigate preference like that in any situation, but also because more generally you just can’t really ever “out-debate” a woman on anything she actually cares about, period.
What you can do though is Rape Her—meant here ofc in more a proverbial sense.
That is to say, you can execute so unimpeachably that your lady love’s self-concept and reputational / aesthetic standing cannot properly cohere without first wrapping those gorgeous epistemic toesies fast round your weener—and once they’re there and baby builds up a dece lil rhythm? You’ll be amazed how reliably she keeps up the footwork.
Just consider, for instance, that precisely none of the assorted Substack girlypops for whom I’ve written an AI sonnet have at this point openly counter-signaled AI Art with anything approaching the level of retarded peanut-brained low openness vitriol you routinely observe among their less fortunate sisters and beta orbiters.
Because it turns out precisely no chick who gets a song written about her that makes her feel Seen and Special and is good enough that she listens to it a few dozen times will ever just write off the entire-ass medium ipso facto without giving the slightest consideration to its first order merits like some stupid retarded cumcunt—though she may well do exactly that if She keeps getting janky songs that are sort of juvenile or gay or read as solipsistic / self-serving and don’t make Her feel especially Seen at all.
Hell, if anything that might be what gets Her to vindictively foreclose the medium as an ouroboric manchild-making Mirror of Erisid when She might not have elsewise—as maybe there’s some parallel universe wherein She instead got the perfect song from exactly the right outside bet high variance nigga who this time doesn’t poop his pants and repeatedly strike out the instant he gets to the big leagues such that bae instead ends up becoming one of AI Art’s more impactful public advocates?
I mean, who knows;.
Maybe disgust for AI art is ackshully all inborne ackshully and far less elastic than I’m framing it and it’s just Bad so I should go have a normal one john mulaney
Personally I doubt it; women ultimately are relational and affective creatures whose thoughts when young and single especially are—despite them almost never coming to terms with this reality, and to the eternal rage and consternation of many millions of them whenever it’s openly discussed—basically never propositionally truth-apt in a sense most men would recognize as analytically useful, and their aesthetic tastes and moral judgment likewise aren’t much more than some gelatinous Jungian slurry that within reason takes the form of essentially whatever hard filter happens to surround it.
And it turns out nothing makes a dame long to slice your schlong off more than when you try to pin her down under a ruleset of one jello mold having just recently switched contexts from a wholly different one in a way that feels slimy or bad faith to her. And there’s absolutely a way to do it she’ll respect and most of the time find super smexy even when employed to do genuinely wretched things to babygirl and pusspie both—but that’s also a horribly fine line to tread, and should you ever get it wrong just watch how fast Paula Jones turns into Amazing Amy and sends your tuchus to the cornfield.
Having said that, when you win you win.
Because, remember: the dick never lies.
Alright, you chodes want takeaways?
First one is that you, the reader should if you still believe AI Art is illegitimate or what have you go through each and every one of the songs included in this article and assess whether or not you think it has merit artistically.
If your answer is Yes—check out my other songs and spread the Good Word.
If your answer is No—I’m unironically telling you to unsubscribe immediately, because I very genuinely don’t want you anywhere near my publication.
Second is whether She likes it or not I’ll always narrate Her as having been a crucially important Hagrid character in my life—initially in the sense of giving me the confidence to make my way back into creative life, then in making me realize with Her lovely pussy that gay as it sounds I kind of do want to marry an educated girl my own age atrocious as their attitudes usually are, and finally in helping me stop feeling insecure around artists by having kind of a pedestrian reaction to the article about our hookup tbh despite having praised the far more gonzo Rebecca one, which again I don’t blame Her for but I also don’t really see Her as more sophisticated than me anymore because at this juncture I’m probably am far more of an art hoe than She is (the real ones as a rule are basically all men).
Third is that ultimately AI artists will have to work far harder than meatfags to be taken seriously, as our work needs to land as undeniable and splendidly polished or it will be dismissed by normgroids out of hand. It’s like how black people tell their kids they need to work twice as hard to get half as far, except actually true.
Fourth is that most of these normgroid technician types are basically union thugs attempting to cartelize the market. To insist a Suno producer with no lyrical or melodic talent can’t build around his own proficiency and must either learn the other one or go hire independent talent he probs can’t afford especially if he’s just a hobbyist doesn’t just make you an impractical pie-eyed maroon—it makes you a wretched labor unionist cunt who ought to be dropped from a helicopter. Until then remember most of these lamers will be economically displaced in short order and keep the girl numbers in your cell to reserve a spot for when they can’t make rent.
Fifth is that all your arguments against AI Art are dogshit and if any of you fags still critical want to litigate the issue before all of Substack then I’d be overjoyed to tear your asshole out in any forum you like—moderated or no, live or prerecorded.
Anyway, I’m not at all sure if She’s still reading at this point—but if so? Thank you.
But it’s late, so I’ll catch the rest of you chodes later.
Wally Out.
— WB
I will however read your article.
The tech innovation that allowed me to overcome my dyspraxian barriers to making music already happened almost a decade ago (Dubler); unfortunately it still required me to wait to stop being homeless and get a space to record.