I was on a first date last night. First one in… months? Who even keeps track anymore. Met him on that new app – the one for, like, *adults* who still have hopes and dreams or whatever. We went to that gastropub downtown, the one with the overpriced tapas. I kept my phone under the table, on silent, screen brightness way down. My thumb hovering over the chat tab with Claude or Bard or whatever name it uses this week. He’d tell a story – something about his trip to Thailand, real wholesome stuff – and I’d type a quick prompt: "witty response to first date story about Thailand trip, make it charming but not cheesy, include a light joke." Then I’d scan the options, pick one, maybe tweak a word or two, and deliver it with what I hoped was a natural, engaging smile. He laughed. He really did. Several times. Said I was quick-witted. Said I had a great sense of humor. I felt… nothing. Just the phantom buzz of my phone in my palm, the algorithmic hum of a conversation that wasn’t even mine. And that’s the thing, right? I used to be good at this. Conversing. Flirting. My brain used to just *do* it. Now it’s all… a calculation. Every interaction, a transaction. Gotta be charming to get the next gig, gotta be engaging to keep the momentum. Freelance life, man. It bleeds into everything. My phone’s my lifeline for work – invoicing, proposals, chasing payments – and now it’s my lifeline for human connection too. My last date before this, I ended up ghosting because the gig I’d been banking on fell through and I just… couldn’t. Couldn't pretend to be a person who went on dates when I couldn’t even afford the damn bus fare to get there. So yeah, I faked it. Faked being a fun, interesting person. And he seemed to buy it. We even made plans for a second date. Part of me wants to cancel. Part of me wants to see how far Claude can take this. See if I can fall in love via AI prompts. *Gag* And then there’s the part of me that just wants to sleep. For days.