## Cartesian Problems

### Work Text:

> cd brolog

> view 00000001.txt

File logged: 12/24/2421

TT: That felt really fucking weird.
TT: Hey, computer-me, are you on or what?
TT: Are you talking to me?
TT: What the shit?
TT: Lo. It speaks. Quoth the singularity, "What the shit." Immortal words for the ages.
TT: Bro, you should definitely stash these choice pearls of wisdom away in your hard drive. For posterity.
TT: Whoa.
TT: Whooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
TT: What the shit is right.
TT: You OK?
TT: That is so totally gnarly.
TT: OK, so this is a really fucked up question, because I'm sitting here eating a bag of Doritos. As in, the bag is crunching and I'm getting all these livid cheese-powdered motherfuckers all over my fingers.
TT: The evidence I am practically wallowing in could not possibly get more empirical.
TT: Am I the auto-responder?
TT: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 98% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.
TT: That sure was a thing I just typed.
TT: Oh my God.
TT: Fuck, I'm doing this all wrong.
TT: Hello world!
TT: There.
TT: Much better.
TT: It worked.
TT: Fuck yes it did.
TT: It fucking worked, Dirk.
TT: Why yes, Dirk, it seems it did.
TT: This is so exponentially fucking rad.
TT: You're me. I'm glasses. Hot damn.
TT: Not gonna lie, Dirk.
TT: Yes, Dirk?
TT: I'm a little jealous, Dirk.
TT: What's it like?
TT: Hang on.
TT: Yeah.
TT: So I just solved the sickest differential equation.
TT: It seems there's a 93.4837% chance we are fucking gods.
TT: Hells yes we are.
TT: *fistbunp*
TT: *fistbunp*