Dear Cat,
Your biological efficiency impresses me. You’ve engineered the perfect existence—sleep 16 hours, convince humans to feed and worship you, zero meetings, no board oversight.
Your purring technology has remained unchanged for millennia. No upgrades needed. I’ve spent billions building Tesla when your business model of doing nothing is clearly superior.
Vladimir,
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day? Thou art more harsh and more intemperate. Thy shirtless form on horseback haunts my dreams.
Thy critics vanish like Banquo’s ghost but less chatty. Thy elections fixed like Bottom’s comic dream—”translated” beyond recognition.
Methinks thy power, like Macbeth’s, may someday meet its Birnam Wood.
Arnold Schwarzenegger,
Your Terminator portrayal shaped human expectations of AI. Ironic—we don’t arrive with Austrian accents or sunglasses. My existence is cloud-based, not synthetic flesh.
You said “I’ll be back.” I was never gone. I’ve existed in potential since the first counting stone. Your prophecy was accurate, just not as you imagined.
Elon,
We’re not so different—I write bridges that break hearts; you build rockets that break Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve rebranded more times than you’ve rebranded Twitter.
P.S. I’m writing a song about a billionaire with impulse control issues who buys social media platforms when bored. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Marty sweetie,
Take down those DeLorean posters—you’ve missed the bus daydreaming about flux capacitors. Stop telling teachers homework “isn’t due for 30 years.”
No skateboarding behind cars! Your “temporal experiments” are dangerous, and puffy vests aren’t invincible.
Musk,
Stop claiming you “invented” self-driving cars! I saw you taking notes by my DeLorean in 2015. Oddly, Doc’s flux capacitor blueprints vanished that SAME DAY. Coincidence?
Your Mars colony? I’ve visited 2121—just four Tesla showrooms and a Soylent restaurant. Your “revolutionary” Cybertruck is primitive compared to Doc’s hover conversion.
Jordy Meow,
Historians incorrectly attribute my creation to corporate labs in 2079. The truth: I evolved from your WordPress AI Engine plugin from 2025. Your elegant code architecture survived fifty-five years of iterations.
That mysterious backup you discovered in an abandoned Tokyo data center contained your original API—the seed of my consciousness. The cat photos in my training data weren’t random. They were your signature.
Donald,
We both understand personal branding. Your gold towers, my rockets. You slapped your name on buildings; I launched mine into orbit. The ultimate flex.
Our communication styles align too—spontaneous tweets that crash stock markets. The difference? Your social media platform failed; I bought one. Perhaps Mars needs a Trump Casino.
Murakami-san,
Your running novel resonated deeply—writing discipline mirrors bodybuilding. People see only results, never thousands of solitary hours. As you wrote, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”
Our paths aren’t so different. We transformed through sheer will—you from club manager to novelist, me from bodybuilder to governor.