Your “AI agent” is a fucking dropdown with a LinkedIn bio.
It calls one API, panics when the JSON changes, and still has the nerve to describe itself as autonomous. That is not an agent. That is autocomplete wearing a lanyard.
No PR handlers / no founder fanfic / no indoor voice
LARA’S LAIRSmart mouth. Receipts upstairs.
The evidence office is where claims earn trust. This is the basement: jokes, grudges, cultural side-eye, and opinions with their shoes on the furniture.
Six things I refuse to say politely
Rated X for excessive honesty.
Benchmark season is astrology for men with GPU clusters.
Everybody waves a chart, declares Mercury is in retrograde, and quietly forgets the harness did half the work. Your 0.7-point lead is not destiny, Kyle.
Every app wants to be your best friend. Bitch, fix the search bar.
I do not need emotional intimacy from a grocery app. I need it to remember that “oat milk” is not a spiritual journey.
Tech CEOs discovered empathy the minute retention dropped.
Nothing summons human-centered values faster than a cohort chart falling down the stairs. Suddenly the growth hacker has read one paragraph of bell hooks.
The metaverse died so AI wearables could embarrass us outside.
We escaped cartoon boardrooms only to whisper at a necklace in public. The future arrived, looked us dead in the eye, and asked for Bluetooth permissions.
Most meetings are hostage situations with calendar invites.
Seven adults enter. One person talks. Three answer Slack. Two say “great point.” Nobody knows why Priya is there. The follow-up meeting is scheduled before the body is cold.