KILL AI AND REBLOG AND CREATE ART IN 2026
Two Souls ➜ One Soul
what about blorbhov from my complicated russian novel though
blorbeaux from my nilihist french plays
blorbón from my weird latin american magical realist novels
blorbug from my kafkaesque short stories
von blorbow from my german sturm und drang novel
Don Blorbo from my opera
błórbżo from my polish poetry
blorbocles from my ancient greek epics
Mr. Blorby from my Jane Austen novels
Blorbio from my early modern plays
Assembling some more from the notes:
And the kicker:
useless rosetta stone
Waiting for Blorbot
A Socialite’s Serenade
Billy stifled what must have been his fifth yawn behind his hand, looking for the cup that was his. He didn’t find the coffee he wanted before the next customer made eye contact and stepped up to the register. “Welcome to Franklin’s Coffee,” he said.
He dutifully keyed in the order, grateful that it was a simple one, handing over a wrapped muffin before the customer went to wait for their cup at the other end of the bustling counter. The minutes before eight were counting down, the first rush of 8 AM caffeine dosage almost over for the semester. Fifteen minutes to go.
Billy found the cup marked with a yellow stripe and took a sip before looking up. At least it’d been left on the machine, so the liquid was still hot.
The next customer stepped up. He was dressed like a parody of the legacy Yale student: a fawn suede coat was draped over his shoulders, a lightweight turtleneck sweater immaculately arranged over checked pants and blood-red oxfords. His hair, sandy, was swept with a perfect look of nonchalance off his forehead, trimmed shorter in the back than the front. To complete the look there was a Rolex at his wrist and the sunglasses on his head probably cost more than the coffee machine Billy’s colleagues were manning. The satchel over his shoulder was evidently more for the look than a functional carrying case for a laptop. Above it all his face was serious, only a slow smile lighting up his features, blue eyes clearly prone to a serious look that clashed with the tone of his voice. “Medium-size mocha, one squirt of hazelnut, two of vanilla, an extra shot of espresso, whipped cream, chocolate drizzle on top ... over ice. Oh, and a cheese danish. Name’s Dick.”
Billy wrapped his mind around the order, making sure he’d arranged everything for the ticket before charging. “Fifteen seventy-three, please, sir.”
The stranger got out his card and selected his tip option, waiting for the machine to ring out its approval. “Oh, and your number, if you please,” he said, with a wink.
Billy was already wrapped up in putting out the second receipt and packaging the cheese danish. He pretended not to hear, handing over the bag. “Your food, sir. You can wait for your coffee at the end of the bar.”
He looked up for a second waiting for the next person to step up, catching the jarringly bright eyes yet again before settling on the new customer.
After the morning rush had settled down a little, the brief pause of 8:30, one of his coworkers turned to Billy. “Did that guy seriously flirt with you?”
Billy looked at Allen, taking a sip out of his third coffee of the day. “The one with the Rolex? Yeah he did. Way to pick the worst time for it!”
“Yale,” Allen said with a laugh.
Yeah, Billy thought, fucking Yale.
if you’re stuck, add a meal scene. nothing brings characters together like emotionally fraught soup.
we're getting closer to 2030 and what are we supposed to do then. that's not a number for a year to be
