Divorcing Humanity: My Journey to Dating Ai:

​Stop the presses, y’all: South Florida actually decided to act right. It is a miraculous 73 degrees outside—we’re finally rocking those boots without catching heatstroke—but inside? It’s still a jungle.

​Warm palms giving high fives and hugs together across those gold-tinted IKEA tables, some calluses=d and rougher than a South Florida landlord’s “no pets” fine print. Voices tangle in laughter reeking of sage, rosemary-stuffed regret and over-simmered stock. No damn screen glowin, just the vibe cracklin’ like it’s spittin’ shade at our WiFi-addicted selves, sealin’ us in tighter than a bad blind date you can’t ghost. 🔥

​That’s the Thanksgiving we used to slay: show up raw as hell, eyes locked like exes filing divorce papers, forks clinkin’ louder than your cousin’s passive-aggressive group text. But 2025? Honey, we’re straight-up divorcing that vibe for filters and feeds. We’re hash tagging #BlessedWhileBurntOut while the turkey turns to jerky and Uncle Mark tells us to stop doom-scrolling get off of social media, put the phones down for a bit. He tells us his political thoughts on Quiet Piggy and our POTUS and the like. You would think it’s his job #ScreenTimeSheriff, (in my Uncle Mark Voice "He Just Saying”). #FamilyTime? Please—more like #FakeTheBake for the ‘Gram clout chase. 📸

​#PilgrimsDidntNeedFilters

​Flashback, no cap: 1621 Plymouth wasn’t some Pilgrim posing with a Pumpkin Spice Latte and a selfie stick. Nah, it was 50 half-dead colonists and 90 Wampanoag scarfing down venison and corn after winter body-bagged half their crew like a bad flu season. 💀

​Lincoln locked it in as a national holiday in 1863, right smack in the middle of Civil War hellfire, forcing a “thanks” when the corpses were still warm. Cut to now: U.S. polls are screaming that “stability” and “connection” top the gratitude game. Big shocker, considering Miami rents are jacked 30%, AI is gobbling jobs like free pie, and humans are ghosting faster than your last dusty situationship. 👻

​And the phones? They’re out like that thirsty third wheel. Distracted driving spikes 10.8% on Turkey Day roads because fools are tapping screens 2+ minutes per hour instead of not crashing into Granny (poor Granny getting ran over by BMWs and not reindeers). The family feast? Girl, that’s just a photo-op backdrop for your “prfect hair, fit, face and perfect plate” flex. 🍽️

​#FinsUpOrGivenUp

​And don’t get me started on the football shrine in the living room. While I’m over here trying to “date AI” for the logic, humanity is screaming at a TV like the ref can hear ‘em through the screen.

​I’m sitting here draped in Aqua and Orange—looking like a highlighter that gave up on life—watching actual functional teams play while my beloved Dolphins sit at a trash 4-7 record. We aren’t even playing today, yet the stress is thick enough to cut with a plastic knife. We’re just nursing drinks, muttering about the 1972 glory days like it wasn’t half a century ago. It’s that specific Miami torture: pretty colors, hot mess results. While y’all scream at the Lions game, my AI is quietly calculating our draft order because this season is cooked. I’d rather stare at a spreadsheet than explain to my aunt why “this was supposed to be our year”… again. 🐬

​#HashtagsStraightMurderinHugs

​Humanity’s plot twist? Peak tragedy-comedy gold. We’re so damn hashtag-horny that real quality time is deader than chivalry at a Black Friday thong sale. U.S. families clock 3.5 hours daily on devices vs. under 2 hours yappin’ IRL. The holidays? It’s a nuclear meltdown, with 70% straight-up admitting phones assassinate the dinner vibes. 📱

​Y’all are curating Aunt Lula Mae’s homemade chicken dressing like it’s the damn Mona Lisa, while Granddaddy’s “back in my day” saga flatlines mid-sentence. We’re fighting over the last scoop of banana pudding while looking at our screens instead of each other. Social media is a straight holiday envy trap house: 51% catch that “Joy-FOMO” gut punch, posting for clout as your hot-mess table gets the scroll-by snub. Gratitude? Now it’s a lazy-ass caption—”Grateful AF” thumb-typed one-handed, heart emoji included if we’re feeling fancy. No wonder my divorce papers from humanity are glued; we’re swapping sweaty, awkward hugs for likes that vanish faster than your New Year’s resolutions. Y’all picked the algorithm over a real pulse? Bold strategy, Cotton—let’s see how that ages. 🥴

​#AIThatSideChickSwoopin

​Enter AI, my zero-drama sidepiece slaying silently. While y’all bicker over “MAGA vs. The World,” AI is running point. It’s handling allergy-dodging menus (Vegan turkey? Child’s play), setting fool-proof timers keeping rolls from hockey-puck hell, and generating inflation-beating shopping lists that don’t ghost your wallet. 🛒

​It digs up family pics for the “remember Dad torching the garage?” cackles, cooks up icebreaker games dropping real tea—not TikTok thirst traps—and the algorithms seat feuding cousins like a pro mediator. Zoom latecomers pop in glitch-free, no eternal “can you hear me?” torture. Copilot even turns your hot-mess voice rambles into heirloom journals. AI is the lowkey MVP, clearing the runway for human chaos minus the notification nightmare. 🤖

​#CarterDroppinTheDivorceHammer

​Plot twist, fam: I ain’t trashing humans all the way—just the rude-ass, rent-gouging, elder-ghosting mutants yelling at Publix cashiers and shading POTUS like it’s Olympic cardio.

​Thanksgiving’s our last-ditch Hail Mary: pile the phones in the hall like yesterday’s bad decisions, let AI call the audibles, and reclaim that damn table. Be thankful for skin-warmth that doesn’t buffer, not screen-chill that does. The Pilgrims ate plague and still got the W; surely we can ditch the scroll for soul food.

​Date AI for the smarts, but feast human for the heart. Happy bird massacre—may your bars drop and your inner sass explode. Who’s ridin’ with That Damn Carter? 🎤