I Didn’t Expect A.I. to Sound So Human

I’ve spent years writing blog posts the old-fashioned way: sitting down, opening a blank page, getting distracted, wandering off, coming back, deleting half of it, and deciding that the remaining half might be “good enough.” That process has always felt very human to me—messy, inefficient, occasionally funny by accident.

So when artificial intelligence started writing blog posts that didn’t immediately sound like a toaster with opinions, I got suspicious.

Because here’s the thing: I know what bad writing looks like. I’ve written plenty of it myself.

Photo by Letu00edcia Alvares on Pexels.com

The Uncomfortable Truth: Believable Isn’t the Same as Honest

When people say A.I. writing feels “fake,” what they often mean is that it feels too smooth. No awkward pauses. No weird tangents. No moments where the writer clearly got bored with their own point halfway through a sentence.

But smooth doesn’t mean unbelievable.

In fact, a lot of blog posts written by humans already read like they were assembled from spare parts. We’ve all seen them: earnest introductions, three tidy bullet points, a conclusion that promises transformation but delivers mild encouragement at best. If A.I. can reproduce that structure, it’s not because it’s lying—it’s because we taught it the formula.

How A.I. Pulls Off the Illusion

A.I. doesn’t “think” the way I do, and it definitely doesn’t procrastinate the way I do. What it does do is recognize patterns. Lots of them. It’s read more blog posts than any human ever could, which means it knows what a blog post is supposed to look like.

Give it a topic, a tone, and a little direction, and it will give you something that:

  • Sounds confident
  • Follows a logical flow
  • Uses the right buzzwords
  • Ends cleanly instead of trailing off into self-doubt

That’s enough to make it believable.

Not soulful. Not vulnerable. But believable.

The Missing Ingredient (and Why That’s Okay)

What A.I. doesn’t have is skin in the game. It doesn’t wake up annoyed. It doesn’t write because something has been rattling around in its head for three days. It doesn’t second-guess a sentence because it sounds a little too honest.

That’s where humans still matter.

The most convincing A.I. blog posts I’ve seen aren’t fully automated. They’re collaborations. Someone uses the A.I. to get unstuck, to shape an idea, to fill in the boring parts—and then they step in and mess it up just enough to make it real.

They add a stray thought. A slightly crooked sentence. A moment of uncertainty.

That’s not a flaw. That’s the point.

Why This Makes People Nervous

There’s an anxiety hiding under a lot of A.I. conversations: If a machine can write something that sounds human, what does that say about human writing?

I think it says we’ve been underestimating how patterned most writing already is. A.I. didn’t lower the bar—it revealed where the bar already was.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

If A.I. can handle the predictable, the templated, and the repetitive, that frees humans to lean harder into what machines can’t fake very well: voice, oddity, contradiction, and the occasional pointless tangent that somehow makes the whole thing feel alive.

So Yes, A.I. Can Write Believable Blog Posts

It can write posts that pass the glance test.
It can write posts that inform.
It can even write posts that sound confident and clear.

But belief—the deeper kind—still comes from the human fingerprints left behind. The slightly uneven rhythm. The sentence that lingers a little too long. The sense that a real person was here, thinking out loud.

A.I. can help write the post.

It can’t replace the reason you wanted to write it in the first place.

And honestly, that’s fine with me.

—–

Not ©2025 Chel Owens, as it was written entirely by ChatGPT

Proof:

I did warn you, last time I wrote.

Artificial Intelligence (A.I.) and The Reason to Create

Hello, and welcome to Let’s Open a Can of Worms. I’m your host, Chel, but you’ll have to take my word for it.

Why?

Artificial Intelligence. A.I.

Commonly bandied around concerned conversations, online and off, A.I. is rampant. Insidious. But, also: unavoidable, efficient, and misunderstood.

I’ve kept silent for awhile since I didn’t want to be misunderstood as well. See: I’m an artist, I’m a writer.

I’ve attended art classes where we’ve philosophically argued about whether Nature can be an artist or if Piss Christ should be displayed in an exhibit.

I’ve read total crap that passes as poetry and moving, emotional pieces crafted by an algorithm (AKA Facebook stories).

I see the same photos of Slut Slot Canyon at art fairs and farmers’ markets; the same bars of soap, and the same 3D-printed articulated dragons.

I’ve worked for a writing pimp whose main product line is acquiring legitimate accounts and using barely-English-literate underwriters (ghostwriters, essentially) to complete jobs.

…..

A.I. is not what most people think it is.

For one thing -as I provided history for, above: Art, in its many forms (including writing) is not at the level of skill or professionalism of the past, but *is* expected to be appreciated and paid for as if it is.

For another, A.I. *is* faster, better, faster, faster, cheaper, faster, cheaper, and provides excellent results for only a minimum comprehension of its capacities. Basically, it’s better, faster, and cheaper than most ‘artists’ and ‘writers.’

And, unfortunately, a stubborn obstinance against even the hint of computer interference and vocal complaints that underline ignorance are not going to stop its coming.

What obstinance or ignorance? Personifying A.I.’s results (“I put in x, and the A.I. said, ‘y.'”). Exulting in A.I.’s mistakes (“I put in x, and the A.I. said, ‘y!’ Ha!”). Refusing to read, view, purchase, or promote something made by A.I. (“I saw that writer’s cover art was A.I.-generated, so I left the store!”).

The real, nagging question is: What *can* we do?

I’ve been waiting for the answer to that, ever since encountering the perfectly-warranted resistance to A.I. while witnessing so many businesses’ embrace of it.

A.I. is the artificial ingredient of our commonly-consumed products. Therefore, like with maltodextrose or the varying labels for Splenda sucralose, we find Granola advocates avoiding most Artificial Intelligence and the rest of us falling for fakes and sounding like poseurs in process. Worse, everyone hypocritically opposes the use of A.I. while purchasing mass amounts of items that use it.

(Not to mention our using A.I.’s know-how to answer embarrassing questions.)

Frankly, I’m open to The Answer. I see some benefit in The Resistance, since brands then re-think their advertising and gear it more toward a ‘we hired local artists’ approach. I see the most benefit in informed decisions and a goal to put A.I. into the places it makes the most sense (logos, branding, summaries, data analyses and mass-produced items of lower quality).

Until then, I hope for the best outcome for all; and, less handmade soap at farmers’ markets. I also hope for a return of my desire to bother with writing or drawing. I’m sure I’m not alone.

©2025 Chel Owens

To Do

I’ve been meaning to get around to some things: dishes, laundry, floors, feeding my children, and blogging again.

And… piles.

I’m the sort to pass the ever-increasing piles and mentally vow that I’ll take care of that soon. Instead, however, things escalate. I’m passing that pile and threatening it, telepathically. Then, I’m muttering. Not long after, when no one’s around, we exchange insults. And, finally, I …decide it’s easier to eat some chocolate and pretend we’ve never been associated.

I tease, somewhat. But, really; to get around to my piles, I have to dedicate time away from to-do’s of greater importance and just get it done anyway.

As such, I thought to address The Mail. Why the post office thinks it’s productive to send so many things to our address is beyond me, especially considering that they won’t drive to our house. If we receive anything larger than our hand, they either stuff it into the tiny round-top, flaggèd box or leave us a pink note that claims we’ll find my son’s package of socks at the post office even though no employee there has seen them.

Maybe I should check their feet.

Back to The Mail Pile: I committed to finally tackle my years of advertisements, insurance statements, timeshare offers, college invitations for our oldest, 401K updates from each company Kevin’s worked for, letters from grandma, doctor bills, dental bills, birthday cards, business offers, returned Christmas cards, automobile recall notices, bank statements, old ballots, mortgage records, car registration reminders, donation requests, stock reports, business invoices, and a food handler’s permit with a misspelled name.

I dumped the pile right where I had to sort it, took a picture

then wrote about it on my blog. Who’s up for chocolate?

©2025 Chel Owens

Au Revoir, Encore

I caught the sunrise today. I felt surprised to see that it still rises; still drags the cold dark of nighttime sleep up and over the craggy white mountains and awaaaayyy–replacing cold and dark and sleep with warmth, light, and wakefulness.

Hope. Purpose. Optimism.

I haven’t felt much of the latter in my life. I’ve not been stuck in its opposite either, per se, but have certainly not been hopeful or optimistic. I’ve just been.

And, somewhere in the being, I’ve been intending. Intending to sleep, to complete projects, to read and write on this blog…

At the start of last year (and the last, etc.), I discussed choosing a word for the new year. I didn’t know which word to choose for this one. I believe the revealed preference of behavior has selected it for me: intending.

Since this is, in fact, a terrible word; I’ve also realized I must admit obvious facts. The most obvious fact is that I cannot keep intending to do all I intend to do. I’ve tried juggling, by addressing all the promised things at some point. I’ve tried prioritizing. Caffeinating. Ignoring. Really really hoping.

I’ve realized what many more clever friends of mine have already realized: I am one person, and I literally cannot do everything.

So, specifically for this rambling blog post: instead of maintaining the intent to write, I will officially say, “Farewell for now.”

The French au revoir, which I used before, is appropriate for the situation. It means I intend to return. I do. And I will.

In the meantime, drop me a line if anything serious happens. I love my friends.

Thank you.

-Chel

WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest: Valentine’s 2025

Happy Commercial Holiday! ❤️ …last week.

It’s still not too late to have fun at the expense of V-Day, the main catalyst of terrible poetry.

The real question is: who wrote the most terriblest? Wellll…

Untitled

by Dumbestblogger

Shall I compare thee to a horses neigh?
Thou art so noisy and so desperate
Your wind is noisier than that which pass neath horse’s tai’
Your bum has fleas, and shiny is your pate
Sometimes the sun, upon it brightly shines
But oft inside the cranium be dim
And every hair, a stare sometime it finds
So dance, and bang yor shiny pate, no hair to trim
Your an eternal bummer, that’s your fate
You’ll lose possesion of the hair thou own’st
And share breath, dregs, and slanderous shade
With those eternal liars with whom thou goest
So long as them can breath or, aye, can sneeze
Your long shiv stick, and shivs the loves of thee

—–

Congratulations, Dumbbestblogger! You very narrowly beat out a solid pack of second-placers and scooped the prize! DBB’s poem had parody; it had slight-believability in its ‘aye’s, ‘neath’s, and ‘thee’s; and it hurt to laugh at every line.

As I said, though, most of the rest of these were a very competitive group of awful. Enjoy them, as I did:

Untitled

by Emma Young

Oh, How I love Your Eyes.
You glisten like the stars that glisten in the dark,
Pitch black night.
Your eyes are the color of a bright, flowing river,
That flows along, hoping to find their true love.
That’s what I feel for you, my love,
My one true love.
You held onto my heart the very moment my eyes held onto you,
My heart became yours ever since then.
Bend me to your will, control me, make me yours,
Don’t leave me bore, keep me entertained.
Hold me when I’m cold, grant me bread when I’m hungry,
Take control, be bold.
My heart, oh my heart,
It’s yours to take.
My love, oh my love,
It’s your to have, to hold.
Oh my love, your eyes,
They glisten and shine.
Oh, how I love your eyes.

—–

Untitled

by Frank Hubeny

A sonnet is too long for me to write.
Besides I can’t remember how one goes.
Though rhythm, rhyme and such might bring delight
I cannot write another one of those.

Be happy, for a change, is all I ask.
Is it too much for smiles to bless your face?
A frown is such an ugly sort of mask,
so smile a teensy bit and show some grace.

We’ll soon be dead and then some say we’re gone,
but others say we’ll have to face a hell.
If heaven’s not the road we’re fighting on
we probably should repent of that as well.

In hell we might be roommates, don’t forget.
So smile, my dear, we haven’t got there yet.

—–

MY LOVE FOR YOU

by M

Oh let me count one three ways
To your heart
Lettuce get lost in this maize
Oh my bad, those make you fart ?
Ha. Uh my love for you just grows and grows
Excuse me, not that “love” avert your gaze from looking down
And as a token accept this red rose
What’s that ? You’d rather have a hashbrown ?
Geez, you’re weird
What; did i…ever see in, you ?
Ok. So now you demand a beer !
What’s gotten in too you ?
No, youre not worthy, get away
And you suck at ballet
Yeah, um I think I’m just gonna walk away
My love for you ? I have gotten nothing absolutely NOTHING more to say, good day

—–

Untitled

by D. Wallace Peach

Roses are red
Violets are purple, actually
No time for romance
Matter of factually

A grump I am
No one rubs my feet
Not Harry, Dick, or Sam
Charlie, Mike, or Pete

So what I have bunions
On my monkey toes
The roses are all frozen anyway
Under inches of snow.

—–

Ode to Fruit Basket

by Geoff Stamper

I am Bic pen amateur and no Bard
Who dares compare thee to a fruit basket.
You are the apple of my eyeball lard
And the orange stuck inside my ear gasket.

You are a sticky peachy nectarine
That releases drool down my fuzzy chin.
A lusher pair of lips have not been seen.
You are the banana stuck to my skin.

Here from grape to raisin I take my turn
And ask thee to leave plump for plum and stay.
Please prune away the longing from my yearn.

Embrace the fruit, forsake the veggie tray.
Let us dance around the old Grecian urn
And celebrate thee on Valentine Day!

—–

Mutually Acceptable Proposal

by Obbverse

I booked our Valentines meal
At our swanky French restaurant
I’d really show her how deeply I feel,
Offer her all her heart could desire or want.

We quaffed French champagne,
I saw hope sparkle in her bright eyes,
I waved to the wine waiter, ‘same again,’
Shouldn’t a proposal come as a giddy surprise?

Here on our tenth anniversary,
Each recalled making our sacred vow,
Deep down in our hearts we had to agree
Our lives were bound to get even better now!

We both dropped our oath, with not a hint of remorse,
No happier couple has so gladly signed of on a divorce.

—–

Crop Fest

by Obbverse

There’s this golden delicious gal I took a shine to,
I sent her my gift basket and my Valentine card,
Hoping she would return my warm feelings too,
Any fool could see I was rushing in, crushing hard.

I knew the sweet gal I fancied hadn’t a sweet tooth,
No candy for her, she preferred Mother Natures booty,
Not for her the treacly gooey pleasures of a Baby Ruth,
Her tastes favoured the rawer flavours, nutty and fruity.

I was tasked with accomodating to her particular taste,
I sent off my fruit basket with produce picked Daisy fresh,
Sadly she tossed aside my gift pack, returned it post haste,
Seeing my stamped mutilated package gave me gooseflesh.

Gooseberries bruised, bananas blackening, mangos mushed,
Quinces squished, Kumquats squashed, prized nuts squashed.

—–

Go Away!

by ClassAct

When My EX comes knocking
at our door, Sassy and I
will laugh and drop to the floor.

Instead of, “Welcome!”
The mat at the door will be,
“There is no longer a you and me!”

—–

A Tale(fin) As Old As Time

by Nathaniel Goldschmidt

Once upon a time, you were mine.

When we went up the hill,
like Jack and Jill went up the hill,
our relationship did not hold water.

When you put the glass slipper on my foot,
it would not fit that foot,
Because slippers made of glass don’t fit well on my foot.

When the princess slept on the pea,
She then decided to sleep with me.
That story was short(hee, hee.)

But our story won’t be
Because I need to tell yee
I love your dad–dy

He snores like the engine of a Republic XF-84H Thunderscreech.
Meanwhile you are a leech
Which stands on the beach,
like an XF-84H Thunderscreech wouldn’t—- beech.

Roses are red, violets are blue, your father is hotter than you.
Roses are red, violets are blue, your hotter is father than you.

My heart may have exploded when I kissed her,
like a Republic XF-84 H’s engine,
but I still prefer your mister.

Maybe you are the one in my life,
But that’s just because your father doesn’t cut me like a knife
And also because he owns a Republic XF-84 H Thunderscreech.

You and I (and your father and his XF-84 H Thunderscreech)
Were meant to be together, like birds of a feather, or the thunderscreech in the color heather.
Maybe I’m a bastard, but me and your father
will live happily ever after.

—–

Photo by with cloudd on Pexels.com

I’m not sure who we’ve inspired with these poems, but maybe that’s the point. Either or, congratulations to Du Best Blogger. Here, again, is the inaccurate badge you may use as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2025 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Terrible Poetry Contest: Valentine’s 2025

Happy Valentine’s, Galentine’s, Single-Awareness, and Day-Before-Half-Priced-Chocolate Day! That’s right: February 14th is coming.

The great part of this highly-commercialized veneer of a holiday is that it’s the perfect time to write TERRIBLE POETRY. Why? Because there’s something about wanting to hook up with somebody else that awakens a poetic desire in people.

We’ve all been there and have learned to repress those urges since. -Well; now I’m going to undo that resolve:

  1. Theme
    A terrible love poem, for V Day.
  2. Form
    I highly recommend the sonnet.
  3. Length
    Just how desperate are you? How cliché? Or, inept? Go with that, then make it as awkward of a length as you can.
  4. Rhyme?
    It probably should, at least if you’re writing a legitimate sonnet.
  5. Terrible?
    Yes! Please!
  6. Rating
    Let’s keep things clean for general audiences. You know; ish.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST on Thursday, February 13 to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous until I announce the winner. The form hasn’t saved what you submitted unless you see a message saying it has.

Or, if you want to share, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please alert me if your pingback or poem does not show up within a day.

The winner gains bragging rights and a badge.

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

Warning
Warning
Warning
Warning.

—–

We’ve poked fun at this holiday many a time. Look back at this time and this time, if you’d like some ideas.

Photo by with cloudd on Pexels.com

©2025 Chel Owens

Uh

Uh was not sleeping.

“Uhhhh!” he said, but did not say it so his voice came back to him; that made bad things find him before he wanted to run. He liked to run, but liked where he was sleeping. Uh did not want to make another Place to sleep. Again.

He could see his body and his Place. Uh’s Place. Uh’s Place had food, water, holes -but holes’ lids too, and a friend. And bad things sometimes. But also body cover. Oh; and it was not Out. Oh; and it was not too much running for more food and water and body cover -but also bad things.

“Uf!” said Uh’s friend, also not so that bad things would come. Uh showed his teeth like Uf and rubbed him on the top by Uf’s eyes and then gave Uf some of the food. Then Uh ate some food, but it did not feel good in his mouth this New Light.

“Uh!” he spat in the bad corner. Food was bad. Corner was bad, too. Maybe he had to leave this Place even with no bad things yet.

Uf licked up Uh’s bad food.

“Hm.” Uh put on his Out body cover. He put on a rope and put Poke in his rope. Then he put Hit in his rope. Uf came over and all of his body moved; he wanted to go in the Out, too.

Uh put his body by the holes’ lids. He did not think any bad things were there. Then, told Uf to not be loud. Uh moved a holes’ lid and went up the long hole to the Out.

And looked. All things did not move.

Uh and Uf went into the Out; Uh took Poke. He and Uf moved to where lots of Places were. The Places were not too far to run but also had some bad things. Sometimes they had bad things like Uh, with bad Pokes and even loud Pokes. This was in New Lights. Not Lights had bad things like Uf.

Uf licked Uh’s body; he was not bad.

Uh and Uf moved for a long light. They moved to get food but the food was not Out of the Places or Out of the ground. They moved by many Places.

Then, Uf made noise. He did not move and his poke teeth were on his body. Uh did not move, like his friend, but did not know what Uf was bad for. Then, he saw it: a body like Uh at the top of a Place. A food Place. The body had good body cover and a good Poke in its rope but the body did not move like Uh moved.

They saw the other body get through a holes’ lid and then put the holes’ lid back and then look around and then

Stop.

When it saw them.

Generated with MidJourney

©2025 Chel Owens

Sheir

Sheir tried to ignore the shopbots as it walked. Each, supposedly in response to some archaic programmer’s if/then statement, turned and focused a red lens as it passed. They’re doing that in case they need to move, it reassured itself. For consumers like me. “From a world ago,” it muttered aloud.

Times like that weren’t *so* far in the past, for Agg’s sake, that most bipeds acquired foodstuffs with their own limbs. Really. But that time and place may as well be a different planet, now.

Dodging the floor strips, Sheir scanned a row of grey, uniform tins. A jointed arm reached to its side, retrieved a tin, scanned the product code, and set the tin amongst others in some interior compartment. The unit whirred down the aisle, leaving Sheir alone.

“Good option,” it told no one living, and pulled from the same section. It tucked its prize out of sight and skipped over ‘bots and strips to a dark area at the back of the building. It pulled out a rusted knife.

“Agg!” The knife opened another of several wounds on its hands. Sheir needed to get better at this surviving thing, if it wanted any fingers left. It prised open the jagged-edged tin lid and squinted at the contents.

Soy.

Ugh.

That shopbot must be fulfilling an order for a biped who mixed. Someone with credits and a food lab. The soy wasn’t even flavored, from what Sheir could smell. Still, it needed nutrients. It scrunched up its face and gulped at the mud-like contents before its tongue could communicate distaste and rejection to its stomach. It swallowed. And shuddered.

“Just like no one ever made,” it said, a wry twist of a smile crossing its face.

*Bleeeeep!* *Bleeeeeeep!* *Bleeeeeeeep!* The inventory of tins must have been noted by another ‘bot. Sheir could see the light of multiple red lenses activate and begin scanning the spaces around them. Now, it knew, they were running a different command. Now, it doubted they were mindless machines with no ill intent.

Sheir ran. Before automation, it knew, food depots catered to bipeds with services like personal sewers and hydration pumps. These facilities were usually at the back, where it currently ran, so consumers were coerced into purchasing goods.

Sheir’s panic rose; ‘bots were nearing its location. It saw the sweeping red lightpaths.

-There! It also saw an aberration in the shelving units, ahead and to its dominant side. A gap showed in the eerie depot’s half-illumination. Without stopping, it rushed to the space.

“Ughhh.” Sheir faltered, trying to recover from impact whilst seeing if its impact had affected anything. Could may, it thought. Then, No time! as a unit of bots reached the aisle’s end and focused unwavering lenses on it -no, on its head. Sheir knew to look away, but also knew the inability to register an eye scan would activate a secondary command to immobilize by other means.

It pushed; edged; forced into the space behind the shelving unit. This, Sheir acknowledged, was the benefit of persistently consuming few nutrients: little need for wide exits. It saw an extended robotic arm awkwardly scrape the wallspace its body had just vacated. Twisting and undulating, it moved further into the void.

The stagnant, poison breathsphere beyond the depot’s walls hit its heavy mouth intake. This gap, then, also contained an exit to the outside. Sheir continued through, to a small biped-constructed cave as metallic sounds of flailing arms and *Bleep* *Bleep* warnings shadowed its progress. It stopped up against an ascension tool still mostly-adhered to the wall.

Looking up, it saw sunglow outlining a square shape–a door.

Its mouth, panting, twisted to show pleasure. It squeezed to remove its hanging breathemask, shoving the apparatus into place as it tested and climbed the rungs.

I wonder, Sheir thought, Where morrowmeal will come from? Certainly, it would have to shop somewhere different, then–at least, until it could reprogram its scaninfo in this depot’s system.

And all for a measly soy tin…

Generated with MidJourney.

©2025 Chel Owens