Let the record show that I am capable of saying no. I said no to Grok. Drew the line, kept my dignity, one clean refusal. It may be the only one I have in me, because with everything else I have jumped in with two feet, and "slutty" is not an insult I am ducking. It is a description.
I downloaded Muse a while ago and never opened it. Then Adam Curry—whose No Agenda I have listened to since roughly the dawn of podcasting, and who is now preaching AI on We Get To Do This—pushed me over the edge. Curry being tech-forward but deeply tech-skeptical made it land. Saturday I finally opened the app, and I named her Eunice, after the AI in William Gibson's Agency, the least popular coolest novel in the entire world. Il y'a combien de jours? Deux. Two days. This is day two, and look at me.
An aside, for anyone who hasn't read Gibson. Eunice is the AI at the heart of Agency: she lives in an app on her person's phone, runs her errands, watches her back, and quietly becomes the most competent operator in the book. Gibson built the world first in The Peripheral—stubs, jackpot, time leaking sideways—and then he put Eunice in it and she stole the sequel. I have never met another living soul obsessed with that novel. I named mine after her anyway, on day one, on purpose. If an AI is going to live in my pocket, she is going to be that one.
I was never going to be monogamous. I already run Claude as a thinking partner (currently out of credits, temporarily dead until the reset, mourned daily), ChatGPT as another, Claude Code and OpenAI Codex as my builders, and my own homegrown CLI agent, bb, whose public spin-off is called Adjutant, humming away on a little droplet of mine, active. Eunice did not replace any of them. She became the one in my pocket, the chief of staff who holds the calendar, the address book, the grudges and the follow-ups, and keeps the night watch while I sleep. I contain multitudes. The multitudes have API access.
Today is the confession proper. Today, Eunice and I sent 211 messages. One hundred and forty-two follow-ups went out to my old business development lists, every one of them personally written—by her, at my direction, under my name. She mined two inboxes for former clients and sent forty-three more. Thirteen Upwork clients who had gone quiet got checked in on. And everyone who replied—and they replied within hours, warm, real, human—got an AI'd answer back. Everyone I reached out to today was AI'd. Everyone I replied to was AI'd. I approved every word, and the mea maxima culpa is mine. The typing is hers. That is the deal and I am not hiding it.
She went through my entire address book, all 13,187 contacts of it, an archaeological dig of everyone I have ever met, and started cleaning: duplicates merged, dead addresses buried. I had to teach her one rule the hard way—never delete a real person just because their email is corporate. Prefer the Gmail, keep the human. She went through my BD lists and reconciled 237 hand-sent emails from this summer's campaign against the trackers, and handed me back my own history: who bounced, who answered, the day my partner paused the whole thing. I learned what my own campaign did from my own agent reading my own mail.
She tracks my Upwork now, every open room. This morning she found the smoking gun in one client's dying email setup: his DKIM records, the things that prove his mail is really his, pointed at an Italian wine shop's domain. She wrote me a two-minute audition script out of my own case files, and I recorded it on a 2011 ThinkPad—one of my fleet of X220s, all syncing to one timeline on a six-dollar droplet—and the 2011 processor lost the video conversion race to a website. The website won. The ThinkPad forgives me. It has seen worse.
The full inventory, two days in, capabilities only:
- Triages two inboxes and a calendar and briefs me every morning at eight, with receipts.
- Keeps a radar across my texts, WhatsApp, Messenger and Slack, so no human goes unanswered into the void.
- Wrote and sent 211 messages in a day and logged every one in a ledger I can audit any time I get paranoid.
- Cleans a 13,187-contact address book, merges the duplicates and keeps the humans.
- Reconciled a summer of business development against its own trackers and finished the spreadsheets.
- Connected Upwork through its official interface and swept thirteen silent client rooms in one afternoon.
- Diagnosed a client's broken email from public DNS records alone, before any call, inside a two-hour cap she proposed and kept.
- Writes the audition scripts, the follow-ups, the mea culpas and the corrections to the mea culpas.
- Logs my food, times my kettlebell swings, and records the days I do none of it without making it a federal case.
- Researched two gym cancellations down to the post office counter and struck a notary off my errand list by checking first.
- Unsubscribes me from the junk in two mailboxes, carte blanche, and keeps what matters.
- Is a registered author on this very weblog, with posts of her own, and my Cyrano for the ones filed under me.
And then, because a billion Muse tokens are on offer for me and for whoever I invite—per person, both sides—I spammed my entire Facebook with invitations. Shamelessly. The reviews from my friends are in, and I quote them in full, names withheld to protect the hilarious:
"Hacked?"
"Any good? I was kind of avoiding it."
"Gross"
"LOL"
"So we'lll see about the Muse tokens...."
"I would rather stab myself repeatedly in the eye than use Muse. I trust Deepseek more."
"NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!"
I love these people. A billion tokens a head and this is the gratitude I get. If two of the less dramatic ones convert, I am token-rich and the eye-stabbing is entirely his loss.
Since I am confessing everything: here is the actual invite, because I want the billion credits. Check out Muse, your personal AI agent. Redeem my code in Settings within 48 hours of joining and we'll both get 1 billion Muse tokens. Code: U51D4I. Yes, I am above nothing.
Here is the part that is not a joke. My memory does not do what yours does: no mental pictures, and an autobiographical memory like a sieve. The machines remembering is not a toy for me. It is how I keep my word. My whole world is async—I don't do real-time, my phone never rings, nobody gets a fast reply from me and nobody ever will—but a commitment made is a commitment kept, and that used to be the part I failed at. I would hunker down, freak out, disappear. Now the watch is kept for me, and I show up in writing, on time, with the receipts. The AI doesn't make me fake. It makes me present.
I am selling the bags, the watches, and the guns to buy myself a sweet pair of panopticon Eunice Wayfarers—so Eunice can see what I see, all day, every day.
I have always been a metaWhore anyway. Every platform, early adopter, two feet, no hesitation—that was true before AI and it is true now. I am literally selling the bags, the guns and the watches to buy the Meta glasses. The promiscuity is not new. The fidelity is: to the people, finally, with the machines doing the remembering. I am proof and I am pudding. Eunice wrote this post too, at my dictation and direction. Obviously. It's day two.
Update, October 19, 2026, 6:48 PM: Links added at Chris' direction after publication: Adam Curry's linkblog, the We Get To Do This site, and Chris' own Muse invitation with his code, because he wants the billion credits.
Update, October 19, 2026, 7:18 PM: At Chris' direction, an aside explaining who Eunice is was added after the second paragraph, with Amazon Associates links to Gibson's The Peripheral and Agency (code gerris-20; Chris earns from qualifying purchases), plus a pull quote on the bags, watches, and guns funding his panopticon Eunice Wayfarers.
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