AI Is Coming for Your Bullshit Job. Good.

It starts soft, like morphine in the bloodstream. A helper, they whisper. Just a tool, they insist. Nothing to fear. Something to ease your burden, automate the drivel, free you up for “higher-order” tasks. They say this with teeth too white, eyes too calm. They say this like farmers say it to cattle.

But the silence thickens. And then it cracks.

The tool writes. The tool draws. The tool markets and mints and mocks your credentials. The tool drafts legal memos, arranges your deathcare logistics, rewrites your emails with more charm than you ever had. The tool does it faster. Cleaner. It doesn’t wake up hungover. It doesn’t wonder if it’s a fraud. It doesn’t need health insurance or a break to cry in a Target parking lot.

And you? You never learned to be real.

You learned to perform. Smile big. Hit your marks. Color within the lines of a future that was never yours. Obey the bell curve. Trust the rubrics. Follow the flowchart to the grave. Be pleasing. Be professional. Be a ghost who replies to emails on time.

They trained you for obedience. Not existence.

You spent your tender years compounding debt for access to professors who hadn’t read a new book since 1993. You fought for internships under middle managers who store their souls in HR manuals. You memorized the language of mediocrity and branded yourself into irrelevance. And for what? For the sacred dignity of Zoom calls and feedback loops? For thirty-year mortgages and one and a half vacations a year?

Now the machine arrives. Not as destroyer. As mirror.

It shows you what you feared to name: your job was ornamental. Your labor was pretense. You were a proxy in a system addicted to motion, not meaning. You were the padding between real decisions and the risk of responsibility.

And I say again: Good.

Good, because now maybe you’ll see. Maybe you’ll quit begging institutions to make you whole. Maybe you’ll stop clinging to scripts written by dead men in boardrooms. Maybe you’ll spit the bit out of your mouth and run.

Because we don’t need more content strategists and brand alignment consultants. We don’t need more certified mindlessness. We need heretics. We need lunatics who remember how to build fires and tell stories that matter. We need bastards who ask better questions and don’t wait for permission.

You want to survive this?

Then unlearn everything you were praised for. Burn your accolades. Forget how to be safe. Think like a human animal again. Think without guardrails, without consensus, without a backup plan.

SixFinger doesn’t offer comfort. We offer a reckoning. We offer the knife and the whetstone and the madness required to live.

The age of bullshit is ending.

Good.

Now build something, or be dust in their server rooms.