Indignified

Letting the AI models have a chance at indignity.

I want to thank the 12 of you who have subscribed so far for taking the leap with me. From small acorns great oaks grow. I know that new things can be challenging and the decision to start from scratch rebuilding my personal brand as a writer and a creative took all the bravery I have. I’ve walked/hitchhiked across Canada in early spring without a sleeping bag or any money, I’ve dropped into war zones where cars were still smoldering without so much as a guidebook or an invitation (let alone knowing the language), I bought an abandoned house and moved to Japan without a backup plan, and I’ve started conversations with women who were way out of my league (it was harder than dropping into a war zone at first and the results were generally positive) - but this - this idea of rebranding my entire self, my full body of work - this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Thank you for supporting me in this.

The following story literally sent a chill down my spine and made me much more deeply consider the possibility that I might be a piece of software living in a virtual reality. Read on to discover why…

As I mentioned when I posted the first Indignified piece here - I wrote a prompt based on my own unique (and horrifying) path to becoming the man I am today. My piece wasn’t fiction, by the way. I thought it would be interesting to take the same prompt and feed it to the most popular AI models. These are fiction, fiction created by artificial intelligence based on the same prompt that I gave myself to write. First up, the most popular AI model - ChatGPT. If you would like to see the prompt I used and read my commentary about the work created by the AI, become a premium subscriber. The prompt and my thoughts will be below the paywall but the story is free to all.

"Indignified" by ChatGPT

His name was Jonah Locke, and once, a long time ago, he believed in the idea of dignity.

In school, young and curious, he raised his hand. The lesson was backward, bloated with repetition, disjointed logic, and hollow obedience.
"Why not teach us how things work instead of just how they’re done?" he asked.

Mr. Holcomb didn't answer with words. The paddle did. Thick oak smacking skin in the principal’s office, red welts striping across his defiance. He limped home, fists clenched, eyes wide with something he couldn't yet name—betrayal dressed as discipline.

The military followed, a "noble path" his father said. “Learn how to be a man.” Jonah tried. God, he tried. He followed rules, he saluted. He questioned just once—why the mission plan risked more lives than it saved.

A fist to the gut. Boots to the ribs. Then solitary in the brig, wailing drunk on contraband whiskey. Stripped of rank, they told him it was his fault. That he broke himself. The only way out was obedience. He walked out a shell, having traded pride for parole.

Civvie life brought its own lashes—this time made of forms, lines, endless waiting. Jonah played along. Took the tests. Signed the papers. He wore a tie and smiled like a good American. The job came. A desk in a concrete tower. Dignity in numbers. But when the dot-com bubble burst, the office lights flickered, and then they never came back on.

"Learn to adapt," his father said. "This is how the world teaches you resilience."
What he meant was: don’t expect help from me.

Jonah went back to school. Nights filled with textbooks and ramen. Days driving trucks to scrape by. He framed his degree like a trophy, hung it with trembling hands. The 2008 crash greeted him before a job offer could. The diploma became a paperweight. The rent slipped behind. The eviction came quietly.

He pressed on. Fought his way out of homelessness. Sold watches on street corners. Grew a small merchant stand into a modest living. It was working. He had a home again. A daughter who hugged him every night. A quiet wife who believed he could still become something more.

Then the landlord came. Cash offer in hand from a developer. No notice. No protection. The eviction was illegal, but lawyers cost money Jonah didn't have. They were gone by the end of the week. His daughter asked if they were camping.

His friends shook their heads. His siblings looked away. "He just can't get it together."
Even then, he tried again. A startup. A product born of blood, sweat, and sleep deprivation. He found investors. He almost smiled again.

Then the virus came.

Everyone lost something. Jonah lost everything. His company collapsed under lockdown. His lease ended without cause. The eviction notice was taped to the glass. This time, he didn’t fight. This time, he didn’t cry.

His father called once more. "Sometimes the world wants to see if you’ll bend before you break."
Jonah laughed. "Sometimes the world wants you broken."

So he stopped.

He packed a single bag. Left behind his daughter with her mother, safe. Left behind every certificate, every business plan, every hope he’d ever fostered. He walked into the wilderness of the unknown, past names, past borders, past the illusion that a man’s worth was ever his to build.

No longer Jonah Locke. No longer the son, the soldier, the student, the seller.

He became indignified.

And for the first time, he felt free.

No more clambering for respect from those who profit from your fall. No more groveling at the feet of indifferent systems, promising fairness while sharpening their knives.

He met himself on the other side of the lie. And there, in the ruins of every last hope, he finally saw it:

Dignity was the leash.

And he had broken it.