When Algorithm is God

It's dull here. Plain. Blank. Drab. White. Not even white; more dull and empty than that. A mind could go mad in here. Maybe I already have.

Since we've all been Connected to the Net, it's been even easier for algorithms to rule our lives. To anticipate what we like and want, even skirting the line to telling us what we like and want.

I guess you could have called me a keyboard warrior, once. I don't think it's a bad thing to be passionate about things, do you? I mean, everyone is passionate about something. I just think it's silly to get passionate about sports or movies instead of, oh I don't know. Healthcare. Equality. Kids having access to education. A safe education.

And I don't think it's a bad thing to hold people accountable when they act in ways that are out of line with our modern, progressive society. Nobody is arresting people for what they say, they're just not obliged to host them while they say it. That's freedom of speech, yes? You're free to speak, and we are free to respond.

So here I was, being passionate about important things. Holding role models accountable. The Net gave me access to tell the backwards bigots and 'phobes exactly why they were wrong and nobody should buy their stuff; I certainly didn't want to.

The content streaming into my eyes started to dwindle.

It turns out, none of them are perfect. None of the singers, rap artists, comedians, writers, actors... All of them have said something at some time that isn't OK by the standards here and now.

I unplugged, but there's hardly anyone else out here. The few people I can talk to "IRL" have this glazed look when I talk to them. A smile that is polite, fixed. That makes me remember all the things I said when I was angry and my fingers were fizzing, thumping the keys... Things I might not have said face-to-face.

Do you know, I even watched DVDs for a while, but the machine broke.

So. Here I am. Plugged back in. Bored. Staring at these white, glass walls. Waiting for someone without sin to entertain me.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + Word count, excluding note: 366 Submitted on Monday 9th June at 23.04

*Quick Author's Note* First, and most importantly: thank you so much for reading my story! The ha'penny that Vocal will toss in my hat for your eyeballs landing on this humble piece will be well-spent. Maybe I'll hire a personal chef.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another! A Year of Stories: I'm writing a story every day this year. This one continues my 162 day streak since 1st January.

Please do consider lending your support to the other creators who are also on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They are putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

The story behind the story: Just imagine if all the imperfect artists and their work vanished! How good do they have to be to be forgiven for their misdeeds? How bad does the "crime" have to be? Who judges either of these things? Best of all: what if your own judgement against one of them caused them all to be shlooped away, because the Algorithms decided you didn't want to see that stuff anymore?

Leave me a comment: I reciprocate as many as I can. Leaving a comment makes that easier!

Thank you! Thank you again, most sincerely. Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! 😁 + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +