What does AI think I am?!

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/27/2024: Late Addition Gen-Xer named Blaine, who is the keeper of a mysterious device of unknown origin and purpose, slung over his left shoulder. Kevin Wikse, a middle-aged Gen-Xer who somehow escaped the clutches of generational clichés, now finds himself carrying the name Blaine like an ancient curse. A name handed down to him like a twisted family heirloom, soaked in the sweat and tears of a thousand forgotten ancestors who knew far more than they ever dared to tell. Blaine, Kevin tells himself, is just a name—a simple, monosyllabic identifier. But the truth runs far deeper, tangled in the roots of something far more sinister. Slung over his left shoulder, like a reluctant companion on this journey through a world gone mad, is the Device. Capital ‘D’ because anything else would be an insult to its ominous presence. It’s a hunk of metal and circuitry, or ma

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/25/2024: T he breaded heroic librarian and esoteric g uardian of the Tremendous Interdimensional Library of Forgotten Arcane with a  friendly, knowledgeable, free-floating fluid and highly mutable clam familiar.   The moment you step into that dilapidated used bookstore on the corner of Nowhere and Everywhere, you can smell it—a musty odor of neglected paperbacks and forgotten lore. But there's something else, too, something crawling beneath the surface like a cosmic bedbug itching to bite your brain. This is no ordinary shop. This is a doorway to realms unspeakable, guarded by a man so eccentric, so absurdly normal, that he could only be hiding something truly monstrous. And that man, dear reader, is Kevin Wikse. Ah, Kevin Wikse—the breaded heroic librarian, a title so outlandishly specific it could only belong to someone who is, in fact, the breaded hero

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/21/2024: Reggie, Gen-X father of three and die-hard fan of Humanity.  Reggie, formerly known as Kevin Wikse before he embraced the cosmic joke that is parenthood, is the kind of Gen-X dad who still believes in humanity with the unshakeable faith of a man who once owned a Walkman and thought MTV was the pinnacle of culture. He’s got three kids, a mortgage, and a minivan that smells like old fries and spilled juice boxes, but damn it, he’s still cheering for Team Humanity like it’s the bottom of the ninth and we’re down by two. Reggie doesn’t just watch the game of life; he’s in the stands, decked out in a faded Humanity jersey, foam finger in one hand, and a cold beer in the other. The kind of guy who’ll stand up and shout encouragement at the TV when some poor schmuck on the news tries to save a kitten from a tree or when a celebrity does something mildly altr

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/20/2024: Connor, the Stellar Outdoor Life Coach who REALLY stresses the Outdoors.  Connor, formerly known as Kevin Wikse before his transcendence into the holy ranks of outdoor life coaching, is the kind of man who genuinely believes the universe is conspiring to help you—if only you'd step outside and let it. He's got that wild-eyed glint, a cross between a shaman and a drill sergeant, convinced that your salvation lies in the dirt under your fingernails and the sunburn on the back of your neck. The indoors? That’s just a fancy name for a coffin—four walls suffocating your potential like an airtight tomb. When Connor speaks, it’s like he’s channeling the voice of the cosmos, and the message is clear: get outside, or get out of the way. He’s the kind of guy who’ll drag you out of your house by your ankles if you so much as mention central air condition

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/19/2024: Oddly Sculpted and Capricious Stallion of the African Wastelands. K evin Wikse, that oddly sculpted stallion of the African wastelands, is a man who exists in the rarefied air of his own reality—a capricious creature whose very presence demands attention like a neon sign flickering in the desert night. This man is a paradox, a walking contradiction who might as well have been birthed from the red sands of the Serengeti. His essence is a potent cocktail of raw survival instinct and an almost supernatural unpredictability, qualities that define him as something other than human—a beast roaming the wilderness with no clear purpose other than to disrupt the natural order. Wikse’s capriciousness is not the harmless sort that you'd attribute to a whimsical spirit; no, it's the volatile nature of a predator who might just as easily snap your neck as

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/18.2024: Your Uncle who displays a fake smile to hide the fact he despises you.  Kevin Wikse, your uncle, a man who wears his disdain like a second skin. His eyes, narrowed and calculating, shoot daggers every time you step into the room. It’s not personal; it’s primal. Something about the way you exist in his space triggers some deeply embedded itch in his brainstem, a reflexive desire to smother your breath with one heavy, calloused hand. He can barely manage a smile, and when he does, it's like watching a malfunctioning animatronic twitch through the motions—mechanical, joyless. His lips pull back over his teeth, but there's nothing behind it but thinly veiled contempt, a simmering disgust that would probably manifest as an audible growl if society didn’t have its leash wrapped tight around his throat. The worst part is that it’s not even well-hidde

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/17/2024: Late 90s New Wave Hobo Shamanic Avenger High Priest of the Toad's Light Temple. Kevin Wikse, a towering figure of sinew and madness, looms large in the late '90s like a specter from some fevered peyote dream. This man—this hobo shaman with a sun-scorched soul—has gone native in the blistering heart of Tucson, Arizona, staking his claim as the High Priest of the Temple of the Toad’s Light. The title alone echoes like a hollow chant across the parched landscape, where the air shimmers with hallucinogenic heatwaves and the ghosts of Carlos Castaneda and Don Juan Matus whisper in the creosote wind. Wikse, a desert rat baptized in the venom of the Bufo toad, walks a tightrope between worlds. He’s the new wave hobo, a relic of the past surging through the neon haze of the future—burning with the gnawing hunger of a man possessed. He inhales the acr

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/16/2024: A 1950s Pearl White American Muscle Car. Kevin White isn’t just driving that 1950s pearl white American muscle car—*he is* the car. Flesh and bone fused with steel and chrome, a roaring, snarling beast born out of Detroit’s dark heart and baptized on the scorching blacktop of every backroad in small-town America. This isn’t some simple man at the wheel; it’s a goddamn mechanical deity, a spirit of rebellion and raw horsepower incarnate, tearing through the landscape like a bat out of hell. The moment Kevin White hit the road, he stopped being just another man. The lines between man and machine blurred, then disappeared entirely, leaving behind a creation that could only exist in the wild, lawless stretches of the American dream gone feral. His engine isn’t just running on gasoline—it’s fueled by the unbridled rage and freedom of an era that refused t

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/15.2023: Liam the Hardest Drug Dealing Southie in Boston. In the grimy underbelly of South Boston, where the streets are a labyrinth of broken dreams and blood-stained pavements, there’s a name that makes even the hardest bastards think twice: Kevin Wikse. But here’s the kicker—around these parts, they don’t call him Kevin. No, that’s too tame, too civil for the man who’s carved out a reputation as the hardest, most cold-blooded dealer in the neighborhood. He goes by Liam, and when you hear that name muttered in the smoky backrooms of Southie’s dive bars, you know you’re in the presence of someone who’s seen it all, done it all, and doesn’t give a damn about the consequences. Liam isn’t just another punk pushing dope on the corner. He’s a force of nature, the kind of guy who’s been in the game long enough to know that survival isn’t about muscle—it’s about fe

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/14/1014: Dual Hockey Stick Wielding Power Forward of the Interdimensional Hockey League. In the warped, adrenaline-fueled arenas of the Interdimensional Hockey League, where the ice burns hotter than hellfire, and the rules are little more than a suggestion, one name echoes through the twisted corridors of legend: Kevin Wikse. But don't get it twisted—this isn’t your grandpa’s hockey, the kind where players sip Gatorade and talk strategy on the bench. No, this is a savage, bone-crunching, mind-bending spectacle where the laws of physics are on permanent vacation, and the stakes are nothing short of your soul. Wikse isn’t just a player; he’s a force of nature. The kind of power forward that even the demons in the opposing team’s lineup take a step back from. Wielding not one but two hockey sticks like a berserk Norse god, Wikse tears through defenses like

Every day, I prompt AI Art with just my name to see what it thinks I am. Then, write up why I feel it came to its conclusion. 8/13/2024: A Goddamn Magical Wombat Guardian for a Spooky Australian Forest. In the deep, twisted entrails of Australia's untamed wilderness, where the moon casts long, skeletal shadows and the eucalyptus trees whisper ancient secrets, there prowls a creature of legend. He’s no ordinary man. No, Kevin Wikse is something far more peculiar—a goddamn magical wombat guardian. This isn't the kind of fable that the tourists hear on guided bushwalks or the tales whispered over campfires by outback drifters. No, this is the real deal, the kind of thing that’s only talked about in the dankest corners of the country’s most deranged pubs, where the whiskey flows like venom and the patrons have seen too much to ever sleep easy. Wikse wasn’t born into this madness—he was chosen, plucked from the ordinary like a flea from a mangy dingo. Some say it happened on a nig