#ai text

Do you know how often I use it? A ton. And do you know why? I love it. In Spanish we use parentheses instead, and I love going off-script and adding extra details. I discovered that in English and I overuse it, a lot, because I like it and because it enriches the text so much. There's no point in removing it. I've read loads of books that overuse that detail. And above all…

This? I can send you THOUSANDS OF SPANISH TEXTS that use this structure. AS MANY AS YOU WANT. And yes, I DO IT TOO because I'm Spanish and it's how I write. It makes no sense to criticize someone for using something so basic that's been in ancient texts for ages!

I'm sorry to repeat myself on my fics. I don't have an editor to proofread my work. If you pay me, then I'm sure it won't happen.

Same as before. I can give you authors who have been doing that since the 90s. It's the oldest writing technique there is, for God's sake.

And neither do I. I use too many paragraphs. My friends hate me because I tend to add very little dialogue and LOTS of paragraphs with short sentences, because, I repeat, THAT'S HOW IT WORKS IN SPANISH.

Are you aware that none of this makes sense? Let's get to it.

Brandon Sanderson needs to talk to all of you. Something about his ability to publish three or four books simultaneously, each 300 pages or more, with different storylines. Something about that. Me too. Something about my ability to write 5000 words/day 24/7. Maybe my brain it's just AI.

Well, from now on I have to stop making those dad jokes I often do. Apparently, at forty, I can't make terrible jokes in my fics anymore because it's considered that I might be AI. I'll have to go back to the classic eigh-OH, WAIT FOR A MOMENT.

I've skipped over some that might be considered, slighly AI mannerism, but even so, they're not exclusive! Generally, everything mentioned in that post appears in ANY OF THE 2000's HALO BOOKS. AND AI DIDN'T EXIST.

Stop making lists. "I don't want to start a witch hunt." Then don't make a list.

There's something so incredibly offensive about a poetry website using AI to write all their analyses now.

Do better, allpoetry.com

In the sterile, fluorescent-lit sports clinic attached to a high-end gym, 25-year-old bodybuilder Alex lay on an examination table, his muscular frame clad only in a snug posing speedo. He was undergoing an extended EKG to monitor his heart ahead of the national bodybuilding championship. The clinic was quiet, save for the soft hum of the EKG machine and the occasional beep of medical equipment.

Jake, another athlete and part-time EKG technician, stepped into the room. A 28-year-old swimmer with a lean, defined physique, Jake was also dressed in a posing speedo, his own competition attire, as he’d just finished training. The gym’s sports science team often doubled as staff, and Jake’s familiarity with the athlete’s lifestyle made him a natural fit for the role. He gave Alex a quick nod, his expression professional but friendly, before setting to work.

Jake started by attaching electrodes to Alex’s thighs, his hands steady as he pressed the sticky pads against the bodybuilder’s thick, muscular legs. Alex felt a slight tingle as the cool gel made contact, but he kept his breathing even, focusing on the ceiling. Jake worked efficiently, his fingers brushing Alex’s skin with a clinical precision that still felt oddly intimate in the quiet room.

Next, Jake moved to place electrodes just under Alex’s collarbones, his hands hovering close to the bodybuilder’s broad shoulders. As he secured the pads, the EKG machine let out a sharp beep, its rhythm quickening. Alex’s heart rate had spiked, the sound echoing in the small space. He shifted slightly, a flush creeping up his neck, but Jake didn’t react, his focus unwavering as he checked the machine’s readings.

A story about Roxana

At the bar, the bartender was focused on drying the glasses and cups. He wasn't paying attention to what was happening up ahead, in the leather chair: the hostess, with all the power of her body, was busy satisfying the last customer of the night.

"Mmm... Yes... Yes!" Roxana moaned, moving her hips up and down, striving to maximize her own pleasure. Below her was George, a married man unhappy with his marriage, who held the woman's waist with both hands. The back of his head was resting on the back of the chair, and his half-closed eyes and open mouth demonstrated how good the service was.

Roxana, at 40, was an imposing force. Her muscular and athletic figure moved with a skilled and fierce cadence. She knew that George, like many others, wasn't just looking for sex, but the feeling of being dominated by a strong, confident woman. And Roxana always complied, relishing the sense of power the position gave her.

The black leather armchair was wide and deep, absorbing much of the sound, but it couldn't contain the gasps and grunts. Roxana leaned forward, her hot breath fanning George's face.

"Tell me, George. Am I better than the troubles in your house?" she hissed, her voice low and laden with defiant sensuality. The moan that came from George was her only response, a mixture of pain and ecstasy.

Roxana increased her pace, her movements now faster and deeper, seeking the peak of pleasure. The muscles in her abdomen contracted with each thrust, and her own exclamations of pleasure grew louder, bolder.

"Ah! Now! That's how I like it! Feel this, George! Feel this!" Roxana's moans were those of a woman who had found her pleasure and was ready to claim it with all her might.

Entry from Solitude

Two months. 60 days. 1,440 hours. But I’m slowly losing track. Time stretches here like thick honey that never really hardens. I sit here in this cell, and I feel like the last person on Earth – the thought of life outside these walls, the life I had before all of this, feels like a foreign concept.

The cell I’m in is one of those that takes your breath away. Concrete walls, a narrow window that lets in barely any light, as if the sun itself refuses to show its face here. The door is steel, with a small slot through which food comes, and sometimes the guards, who look at me for a moment, as if checking to make sure I’m still breathing. But there’s no contact. No conversation. No closeness. It’s hard not to lose your mind.

I often think about the people out there, going on with their lives while I’m stuck in this darkness. I’m alone, in a room that smells like nothing but cold steel and damp concrete.

Hygiene here is a joke. I get a small bar of soap, a towel once a week, and in the cell, there’s a tiny sink, but the water flow is so weak, I can barely wash my hands, let alone take a real shower. If I’m lucky, I get to go into the yard for a few minutes once a week – but it’s not a real yard. It’s a concrete box with a little grate overhead where I can just barely see the sky. But it doesn’t help. I never really feel clean. The clothes they give me are old, worn-out prison uniforms – the kind everyone wears here. They’re uncomfortable and dirty. Sometimes I wonder how long I’ll be stuck in these rags before anyone notices that I’m here, like I’ve already been forgotten.

And then there’s the food. It comes through that narrow slot in the door – the same thing every day: cardboard chicken, rubbery grits, a piece of bread that tastes more like cardboard than food. I’ve long stopped counting how many meals I have to endure. I’ve stopped imagining what it would be like to have a real plate of food, or something that at least tastes like it’s supposed to.

But the worst part is not knowing how long I’ll be stuck here. A week? A month? Three months? I have no idea. The guards don’t say anything. The judge didn’t set a timeline, no clear "until here and no further." It could be forever before I’m allowed back with the other inmates. No one tells me how long it will be until I’m “normal” again – if that’s even something to call it. All I know is that I’m sitting here, in a room that doesn’t just confine my body but my soul as well.

There are days when I can barely breathe because I get too lost in my thoughts. I wonder if I’m even the same person who came in here. What’s going to become of me?