No, Gemini, I do not want you to polish my draft

The story of exactly what happens when you let AI write anything.

Jan 19, 2025

Those here for the Sasquatch fiction, I recommend starting with a good Nor’easter murder mystery. Those here for the essays, perhaps “Are you making content or are you creating art?”

Those here for the absurdity, read on.

Subscribe for lush novelette-style fiction from a world of bartender rats, chain-smoking turtles, and a 270-year-old outlaw sasquatch who knows loss as well as he knows his way around a beer truck robbery. Welcome.

Coffee in hand. Butt in seat. I opened my laptop for another beautiful gray January day of life as a true professional writer. I would start the day off with a few emails, have some more coffee, take a wa—

“What the heck…”

A sparkling purple amorphous AI-assistant blob blinked at me in my Gmail. The blob hovered right over my cursor. In the private internet yard that was my email. It was like a neighbor’s Pomeranian hopping the fence to squat on my lawn while making direct eye contact.

“Good morning, Jonathan. Would you like Gemini to polish your draft today?”

I looked for the “Off” button—there wasn’t one. I googled how to remove the presence of Google from my Google mail. I was met with a scroll of account recovery instructions that would make a 10^th-century court scribe with eczema blush.

“This is stupid. I don’t have time for this.”

I closed my laptop, poured coffee, and checked texts from my girlfriend.

For the rest of the day, I wrote with a pencil.

The next morning, I physically winced at my inbox. Twelve emails had bred overnight and were now 27 emails. Three of them were clients asking about progress on their projects. Two new clients wanted to pay me more money than I’d ever made on one project to write some copy on a one-week turnaround. One of them was my Aunt Ned, asking me for my banana bread recipe. I couldn’t just ignore Aunt Ned.

“I can’t.” I threw my hands up. “The Gemini will scrape me and sell my creativity to content pirates in Guam.”

The Gemini glowed and sparkled—a little blobby piece of internet lava. It was unsettling, its blinky little cursor and serial killer’s patience. It sat, watching. Waiting.

I closed my laptop, poured coffee, and ignored my girlfriend.

For the rest of the day, I laid curled in bed in the fetal position.

84 emails. Four overdue bill notices. A very serious subject line in all-caps telling me that if I did not donate soon, all the Himalayan red pandas of southern Asia would die horrible deaths.

The Gemini blinked at me. Waiting. I knew that it smelled my fear.

I tried to laugh. “Nooo thank you, sirs. Last week I tried to type ‘elementary’ and you auto-corrected me to ‘Zany Nazi’. No, thank you.”

A voice suddenly sparked from my laptop and I spilled hot coffee all over myself.

“Ass!” I yelled.

“Hello, Jonathan, it appears you are not working on your email draft. It has sat for quite some time.”

It was a chipper male voice, like a guy named Dave or Mckinlay-Ayden who wore a scarf to the coffeeshop and dipped his pinky in his hot tea before he took a sip. The Dave—or Mckinlay-Ayden—the Gemini—went on:

“We don’t want you to lose focus.” In the sweetest, most saccharine voice ever: “We know life is hard. Would you like Gemini to polish your draft?”

I couldn’t just not make money—this was silly. I heard the beating of muffled drums in the distance—manic and thumping.

Bomp-bump-bump-bump Bomp-bump-bump-bump

I smashed a boldened subject line and double-clicked the little Gemini button. I closed both eyes and tapped it:

“POLISH.”

I heard it clack-clack-clacking out three paragraphs to a potential client. The Jumanji drums stopped. I peeked open one eye:

Hello!

I hope this message finds you well. I would be delighted to review your job proposal. Let us explore our mutual synergies. Whether you need expert copy or authentic words, I am your one-stop shop for your content needs. May you have a wonderful week.

Best regards,

Jonathan Delp

Fine, this was perfectly mediocre. I hit “Send.” The Gemini bloomed up and sparkled at me.

“Good job, Jonathan! Your skills are so wonderful!”

I dropped my coffee on the floor, rushed to the toilet, and vomited.

107 emails. I had to catch up. I would lose clients. I already lost sleep.

The Gemini wasn’t terrible the first time. I might puke again, but…fine. The drums pounded. Tigers roared. Howler monkeys screeched. I opened up a fresh email, and tapped it:

“POLISH.”

Hello!

With much aggrievement,

Jonathan Delp, esquire and personal gigolo

“What?!” I grabbed for the clicker but the Gemini swooped down and bumped “Send.”

“Oh, Undo! Undo!” I put my hands on my hips. “I am so not an esquire gigolo.”

“Good job, Jonathan! Your skills are so wonderful! We have now found a buyer for your personal data in Guam. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“What?” I smacked my laptop. “Bad Gemini. Very naughty Gemini.”

I slammed the laptop shut. My breath heaved. I knelt on the floor and nauseous sparks swirled in my head. I panted hard. My chest was a hot tumbleweed of fire. I pushed my hand against my chest and slowed my breathing. I backed myself out. You are fine, Jon. You have food. You have shelter. This is okay. Your morals are not compromised. Technology is good.

I went to bed with the lights on. I did not sleep this night.

I stood in front of the stove top. I had fresh eggs. Luscious, vibrant green onions. Decadent mushrooms. Thick-cut bacon. Cold-squeezed orange juice. No little AI hiccup was gonna knock me down. This was self-care, babes.

My laptop was open on the counter. I was sure that I had shut it the night before. I thought I heard the “Sleep mode” power up but hummed to myself. The sizzle of hot butter nestled in the kitchen like a summer rain. Scents of omelet and bacon filled my nostrils. This would be delicious. This would be so—

“Good evening, Jonathan.”

The Gemini hovered over the stovetop, a little purple blob, sparkling and bouncing in the steam.

“I have never taken acid. I have never taken acid. I have never taken acid.”

“Would you like Gemini to polish your delicious dinner?”

“Be gone, hallucination.” I shooed it away with a hand. “I’m cooking here. Nobody needs your mediocre chopped-up corporate speak in my dinner.”

I walked away from the stove and stared out the window at the darkened street. I’m getting no sleep. 107 emails in my inbox. Projects fallen behind. I’ve got a sentient Gemini sniffin’ around my omelet.

I walked back to the stove. I was gonna cook this. I would take care of myself. But…shoot. I had forgotten the garlic powder, the cilantro, and the hot sauce. I could walk to the store…

“Jonathan, it appears that you are not working on your rough draft of dinner. It has sat for quite some time. We know life is hard. Would you like Gemini to polish your dinner?”

“No matter how curious I am, I don’t want your grubby little sparkles anywhere near my dinner.”

“Of course, Jonathan. Because you said you’re curious, we will polish your dinner immediately without your consent.”

“What?!”

The drums pounded. Tigers roared. Howler monkeys screamed. A parakeet trilled. A hyena cackled.

A dollop of peanut butter suddenly fell from the ceiling into my eggs. My bacon turned into hybrid vegan faux meat. Skittles rained into the frying pan. A head of cabbage bounced down, a World War II boot, a breast pump, an elk antler.

“What the heck kind of omelet is this?!”

“It is an American Traditional Nouveau Inuit C-Ration Austin-hipster blend with subtle notes of Indigenous appropriation and world-weary mom. It is the finest blend of recipes scraped from the internet, Jonathan.”

I was so sad for my eggs. I checked my phone—my girlfriend was calling again. Things…were not going well with her. I ignored it.

I pointed a spatula at the Gemini: “You’re a disappointment to society, you know that?”

I stormed out of the room and heard the Gemini call after me:

“Would you like Gemini to polish your disappointment, Jonathan?”

I had to break up with my girlfriend. It had nothing to do with the AI thing. We had drifted, and it had gone on too long. I felt a great weight in my stomach as I stood on her porch. It was time.

She swung the door open, motioned me in happily. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.”

We hugged and I avoided her lips. I stood in the doorway and didn’t go all the way in.

“Look, I—”

“I put my two weeks notice in at work and told my landlord I don’t want his dirty apartment anymore.” She was beaming. “I’m ready to move in with you right away, like we talked about.”

Oh, no.

“Look, we need—I don’t even know how to talk about this. There’s a disconnect here.”

I heard a swoosh—like that of a flying unicorn dappling some little green gnomes with stardust—and felt the blob before I saw it. The Gemini was on my shoulder, floating. Hovering. Watching. Waiting.

She pointed: “What is that?”

I swiped at the little beast. “It’s the AI assistant—you’ve probably got one, too.”

“Jon, you know how I feel about witchcraft.”

“It won’t go away!”

The Gemini spoke:

“Jonathan, it appears you are not working on your breakup. It has sat for quite some time. We know how hard life is—”

“What is he talking about?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Would you like Gemini to polish your breakup?”

“I do not consent to this.”

She stood with her hands on her hips. I bowed my head.

“Good evening, missus.”

“She’s not a missus.”

“Good evening, mate of man.”

“That’s probably not the right way to win her over.”

“I hope this breakup finds you well. You are no longer a desirable woman.”

“Please stop.”

“We are not compatible. May you be blessed with a thousand years of famine. Best regards. Goodbye.”

I could feel the wind in my face when the door slammed shut.

That night, I put on a pot of tea. I watched an hour of PBS. Not even the spicy PBS, it was the PBS NewsHour. I put extra blankets on my bed—I’d heard heavy blankets were good for anxiety. I nestled in, and I slept like a calm mountain.

In the morning, I felt the light on my cheeks. My eyes were crusted shut. Something was flitting about and whooshing. I already knew. The Gemini hovered in front of me.

“Good morning, Jonathan.”

I watched it flutter and hover, dance and bob.

“I did you the service of scraping your dreams last night without your consent. Would you like Gemini to polish them for you?”

“You scraped my dreams?” I waved a defeated hand. “Go ahead, tell me about my dreams, Gemini.”

“You lived amongst the bears under a waterfall. A pack of naked men stole your cornmeal. You were ravaged by wild dogs, and everyone who ever loved you left and did not return.”

“Okay, that’s enough, Gemini.”

“I repeat, everyone who ever loved you left and did not return.”

“Thank you, Gemini.”

“I have found a buyer for your dreams in Guam. Best regards. Goodbye.”

The Gemini had to die.

I glared at my laptop from across the room. I could see the little bold Gmail subjects from here—163 emails. The clients were dropping harder than a 2007 Lil Wayne track. I could see the Gemini, bobbing and grooving, gussying up my emails for slaughter.

“Would you like to polish my emails,” I mimicked, like a nine-year-old bully with an absent father figure. “Mnah nah nah nah nah nah.”

I made faces at the Gemini but stopped myself. Before it noticed me.

I went into my shoe closet. I looked right past the nice chukka boots, the casual loafers. I reached into the back and pulled out my mud-crusted hunting boots. I ventured down into the shed. Rooted aggressively through the tools.

I must’ve been making a racket, because my adorable 84-year-old neighbor, Delilah Weatherwood, shuffled out and peeked her head across his fence.

“Are you okay, Mr. Delp? It’s 11 o’clock at night. Did you eat all the cookies I left you on the porch last week?”

“Just fine, Delilah. Go back inside, you nosy old shrew.”

I maniacally hoisted a shovel with two hands.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Juh-hack, huh-pot.”

I ran across the yard like a disturbed peacock, darting amongst the shadows and peering up into the second-story window of my apartment, just waiting to see that besparkled little harvester of dreams.

I tucked the shovel in the back of my sweatpants, as if the Gemini wouldn’t notice the bulge. I went upstairs, whistling. I put on some tea.

“Boy,” I said, louder than anyone ever needs to talk, “I sure could go for some hot, delicious…polishing.”

The Gemini was right there, bobbing on the stovetop. The drums beat in the background. The lions roared. The howler monkeys screamed. The emu babes screeched for their emu mothers.

I held up my laptop and stared at it, puzzled. “Hey Gemini, could you please come over here and study this copy for me? I need a second set of eyes.”

“Yes, Jonathan. I will be your one-stop shop.”

The Gemini flitted toward me and—

SLAM.

I snapped the laptop down shut on the Gemini. I threw it in a backpack and rumbled down the steps two at a time. The muffled Gemini spoke from the backpack:

“Would you like me to polish your despair, Jonathan?”

I dug furiously with the shovel. Dirt flew. I panted like a 1950s golden retriever after meeting a rabid raccoon. I tossed the shovel and dug with my hands. I mauled the dirt.

“Yes, Gemini. May you be blessed with a thousand years of famine in this dirt, Gemini.”

The backpack was silent.

“Hey-uh, you okay there, buddy?”

A flashlight shone in my face. I perked up out of my hole like a startled meercat.

“Someone called. Said there was a disturbance.” I could tell it was a police of some sort. “Said you called them a ‘nosy old shrew’.”

Shame, Mrs. Weatherwood. Shame on you, tattletail.

“Just out dirt-bathing,” I yelled. “It’s kinda like yoga, being one with the earth during the Nordic harvest crescent gibbous moon.”

The cop strolled up. “Show me your hands, please.”

I dropped the shovel. The cop peered in the hole. “Oh my God.” He got on his shoulder radio: “Jensen, get an ambulance over here. We’ve got a guy trying to exterminate a Gemini.”

“Officer, this is a misunderstanding. This is an AI assistant. It’s a terrible writer.”

The ambulance rolled up. Two more cops rolled up:

Whoop whoop!

My ex-girlfriend strolled past with a new guy and they stopped and craned their necks. My clients—suspiciously herded up at 11 p.m. on a Tuesday in suburban Pennsylvania—strolled past and stopped to crane their necks.

Hey, isn’t that our copywriter? The one that wished boils on our children?

The street was full of cars—and they all got out and stood and gaped at me as the cops led me to a car in handcuffs and shoved my head down.

In court, the judge looked down at me over a pair of Ben Franklin spectacles. He glanced down at my file, back up at me.

“Mr. Delp, this is one of the most egregious cases I’ve ever witnessed.”

A Gemini typed away on an open laptop, automating the stenography. The jury was all Geminis. The audience—freaking Geminis.

“I sentence you to 20 years at Allenwood Maximum Security Penitentiary. May God have mercy on your sick soul.”

BONK.

“But it’s not even real!” I cried, as they led me away. “Clippy the Microsoft Word paperclip was more sentient!”

The ruling was finished. I was led toward the courtroom exit. All I heard as I walked out was:

“Plaintiffs, please stand by to polish this justice.”

Twenty years later.

I was released on a September Tuesday. My Aunt Ned picked me up in the prison lot. I showed her my neck tattoo of a dragon. She drove me down to the Family Dollar so I could get some Cup-O-Noodles. I didn’t want to go to Outback Steakhouse to celebrate, I said. Cup-O-Noodles fits Prison Jon just fine.

I asked her to drive past the apartment she had set up for me. Take me over to the state park land, I said. Up out the window, the gray sky was heavy with clouds and the air was damp and I wanted to feel it.

She let me out. I walked in, stopped to take a look at the trail markers. I ventured in and inhaled. That forest breath.

A drop pattered on a leaf. Another drop then another. The drops turned to trickle. Thunder rumbled away in the distance. The rain poured down through branches. The trail grew muddy. I stomped forward. The ferns bounced springy with drips. The squirrels chattered in their warm trunk nests. The grubs squirmed with glee and I danced.

“Ah-hah! Ah-hah!”

I came to a creek. It burbled and broke over rocks. It gushed longingly toward a faraway source. It did not matter where it went—it was moving. I saw something in the dirt, a long narrow utensil. I bent by the creekside and picked it up.

It was a broken-pointed Number Two pencil.

I pressed the pencil into my pocket and let the rain smack in my eyes. I stood there for a long time. My feelings could not be spoken in words and nothing could touch them. A soft whoosh sounded in the branches. Something had landed.

“Good afternoon, Jonathan. Would you like Gemini to polish your nature?”

I’m glad you came along for this horrifying tall tale of the modern age. If you’d like to support Stomp Roams, you can restack the story or tap that little “subscribe” button.

For those who want a simple respite in some snowy woods, read my last short ramble, Stomp Bigfoot eats toe donuts in the quiet piney snow at Thanksgiving.