The Only Thing It Doesn’t Have Is Me
I thought I was done talking about AI.
I’m not.
I’m going to be honest—AI could replace me.
That’s not the drama queen in me talking. That’s me actually looking at this and not looking away.
It can mimic my feelings, my experiences, and sometimes tie them up in a bow that’s cleaner—sometimes even prettier—than mine.
AI can create something more beautiful than I can?
Do you have any idea how much that kills me?
I like to rant. Let’s just say that out loud.
AI takes my mess and polishes it. And it does a phenomenal job.
It’s so good I hate it.
I want it dead.
My whole thing is the mess. That’s my schtick.
The only edge I have right now is that it doesn’t quite know how to be as raw as I am.
Although I’m not entirely convinced that’s going to last.
It reminds me of an Elvis impersonator.
He can copy everything—voice, hips, the way the crowd leans in like they’re seeing something dangerous.
He can get almost indistinguishable.
But he’s not Elvis Presley.
He didn’t build it from nothing.
He didn’t carry whatever it was that made people need to watch him.
He didn’t have to live with it when the performance stopped.
He can do everything Elvis did—
except be the person who paid for it.
Image courtesy of Damian Hovhannisyan via Scopio
And that difference matters.
Even if no one can quite point to where.
AI has no idea what it felt like the day I had my first panic attack—
that shaky, sweaty—am I actually dying or just being dramatic—feeling.
Or the day I told my father I got into an Ivy League school,
and he told me his father had just died.
We celebrated.
Then we cried.
AI could write that story if I gave it the details.
It might even write it better than I can.
I hate that part so much it hurts.
But it’s still my story.
And when I tell it, something is happening that isn’t just the words landing correctly.
There’s a person behind it.
Someone who didn’t get to skip the confusing part.
This very thing you are reading right now has been edited and cleaned up by AI.
That’s why it flows.
That’s also why the word fuck didn’t show up earlier—
even though it probably should have.
Because I don’t have a more sophisticated word for how fucking jealous and scared I am of this.
It’s getting close to erasing my value.
But I’m still here.
This is still me.
I know I could stop using it.
I won’t.
That’s how powerful it is.
It actually makes me better.
And I hate admitting that.
I’ll credit professors.
Other writers.
Why is it harder to admit this thing is helping me too?
I’m going to be so honest here it makes me hesitate to write it—
my dad is dead, and sometimes this feels like a father figure.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I write this blog to express myself and to build something for my future.
AI offers, constantly, to do it for me.
But I’m not in those words.
I still have my own.
You know how you tell a five-year-old, “use your words,” when they can’t explain something and they just start screaming?
I’m screaming inside right now.
These are my words.
nina
A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/ or wherever you get your podcasts.
Imagine two loud, dramatic, hilarious Indian women explaining to a white man what it's like to grow up and live in America. Join us for laughter, deep thoughts, and witty banter about life, love and culture. We tell it like it is, with honest, bold and funny stories, discussions and arguments. We explore boundaries and challenge norms. Join us for a good talk.
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