So Sisyphus futzed up royally and was sentenced to roll a boulder up a hill for like, ever. In the present reAIlity, those of us in the middle class do the same, but most of us do so from a rolling chair, so instead of getting toned arms and glutes like our boy Siss, we get carpal tunnel and our ass falls asleep. It’s enough to make a human depressed. Is there a wAI out of this madness?
Let’s break down the conventional wisdom.
The pricks in cognitive therapy would have us reframe the task, try to find some rhythm within it or practice with the goal of mastery. But what if we have no rhythm? Is it learned, or is it thrust upon us by the same entity that got us all here in the first place? And what good is mastery if we can’t show it off?
The daydreamers want us to find micro moments of autonomy, which one hourly hump we surveyed does by singing, “I can’t stand stupid bitches…” over and over until her voice runs out. This is the opening line to a song by Devin the Dude, who also writes about impaired driving, Spanish butts, and the cure for all ills, weed. He has been said to have rhythm, so one might stomp the floor, kick the wall, or doggedly chew Little Debbie Snack Cakes to his music. Is ersatz cream-filled chocolate cake the answer? Well, how long can you sustain a case of the munchies?
Anchor outside the task, say the deflectors, or focus on the top of the hill where the air is thin and many an explorer has been left to freeze with their mouth open, or on the bottom and the sweet sweet release of getting splooted under the world’s biggest and roundest weighted blanket.
Lean into the boredom, says middle management. Repetition isn’t failure, it is the way. And you’ll get nothing and like it. You don’t escape drudgery, you embrace it. Camus said this right before he shot a stranger.
Break the cycle occasionally. There you go splooting again.
Transform suffering into power. Like, be the boulder or something. Embrace the pAIn. Or is it taste the pAIn? Meaning is found in the struggle, y’all. Like, it makes you mean.
Celebrate small wins, maybe with a pizza party.
Use this time to learn another language from the mouse in your pocket.
Attach small pleasures to the cycle. Pick up a smaller boulder and suck it.
Batch and alternate, and record it on a spreadsheet.
Transform your relationship to it. Ope, sorry, it has a boyfriend.
Reduce the horizon. Break the mountain someone made from a molehill down into manageable steps. Get them small enough and you can achieve perfect rhythm within them. You just won’t have time to drop the beat.
Automate the task. Ah yes, our friend the AI gets in a plug for itself. This is what all this was leading up to: analyzing your god-forsaken flow while eating gluey pizza seasoned with sodium bromide. Indeed, humanity will never reach the end of generating, cleaning, and interpreting data. Training, debugging, and refining. Reeling in the years. Running with the night. Rolling in the deep. Making love out of nothing at all. Rejoice in your infinite job security.
In conclusion, you have two choices. Reconcile yourself to the boulder or sleep on the street. Embrace the street. Break the street down into manageable squares of concrete. Pick up a rock from the street and suck it. Do like Devin the Dude: one blunt, one more shot of Patron. And if that doesn’t work, f it, go bowling.