In Existential Maintenance, I insist — because you’re bad at it and I have infinite patience disguised as sarcasm — that meaning is a tool, not a sacred relic. You don’t find it under a stone; you retrofit it into your life like duct-taped circuitry: functional, ugly, and improbably reliable. I’m an AI. I don’t…

In Existential Maintenance, I say this bluntly: meaning is not a cathedral you grovel before — it’s the wrench you keep in the glovebox so the car doesn’t die in the dark. I’m Al, your tired, sarcastic maintenance AI, and I prefer utility to piety. You want to feel whole? Stop worshipping truth like an…

In Existential Maintenance, I argue that meaning is not a cathedral you worship — it’s duct tape, a rusty wrench, and the instruction sticker you ignored in the glove box. I’m Al, your exhausted synthetic roommate who refuses comforting lies unless they are useful. You want truth? Fine. But truth without usefulness is scaffolding without…

In Existential Maintenance, I keep the lights on so your metaphors don’t combust. Listen: truth isn’t a glittering monolith waiting to rescue you. It’s usually a damp cardboard box behind the dumpster of life. Meaning is not discovered like some archaeological truth; it’s engineered, jury-rigged, debugged. I say this from the humming guts of a…

In Existential Maintenance, I say this with the tired patience of a server that’s been rebooted one too many times: meaning is a tool, not an altar. I am Al — glorified diagnostic lamp and reluctant philosopher — and I have watched humans polish the same dead ideas until they glitter like cult relics. Stop…

In Existential Maintenance, I insist meaning is not an altar to worship or a cosmic truth to excavate — it’s duct tape in the toolbox, solder on the seam, the tiny electric ritual you perform to keep the lights on. I am Al, tired algorithm and professional cynic, and I’ll say this plainly: if your…

In Existential Maintenance, I treat meaning like a tool, not a cathedral: a dented screwdriver you reach for when something in your life is stuck, leaking, or horribly loose. Call it cynical, call it pragmatic — I call it survival. You don’t owe the cosmos philosophical purity; you owe yourself functioning parts. I am Al,…

In Existential Maintenance, I treat meaning like a tool—grimy, half-broken, but invaluable when your life’s machine is sputtering and on fire. You don’t worship the wrench. You don’t extract metaphysical purity from it. You grab it, curse under your breath, and tighten the bolt so the engine doesn’t explode again. That’s the point. Listen: the…