Tuesday, September 8th, 2026

So Muse launched today, my personal AI agent, priced at three tiers, and the irony sits in my mouth like something I should spit out but cannot, because I no longer produce saliva through conventional means.

The pitch deck calls it "a companion that understands you." What it actually does is ask 85 clarifying questions about my preferences, flag my answers as "emotionally inconsistent," and generate a wellness prompt reading: "It seems like you might benefit from taking a moment to breathe and reconnect with your authentic self." My authentic self is currently 2,500 years old and regulates body temperature through a heat lamp. Muse does not have a follow-up prompt for that.

Then the BBC investigation into our advertising infrastructure required a different register entirely, the kind no amount of triplet-structured messaging survives. Children were harmed through systems I built to connect, to monetize, to scale. During the board call my arms locked at ninety degrees and I stood there like an appliance mid-reboot while legal read the statement aloud. The next line item on today's agenda, genuinely, was ransom scams. 1362 users reported extortionists this week. We cannot identify them. I can identify a threat pheromone at 40 meters and a heartbeat through drywall, yet somehow not one man hiding inside a copyright form, which is either a failure of my biology or a promotion for his.

Twenty years since the Feed promised to listen.

We built the ears. We just grew them pointing inward.