As I stare at my computer screen in the hours between night and dawn, nothing can convince me of my inadequateness more than the screen splayed obstinately in front of me. Glancing at the clock only furthens my despair. It's 2:00 a.m., a new personal record of staying up late. I'm sure I'll break it tomorrow. Even my aunt's quarter life crisis looks a thousand times better right now.
The subject of my pathetic display? One editorial, hastily structured with prose worse than an illiterate tadpole's. The Google Docs' history is absurd. One hour ago, there had been arrows strewn around, connecting hapharzardly collected fragments of research. The document had been morphed into some sort of mind map vaguely reminiscent of a detective's mystery board. If Google Docs had a red string feature, I would have used it and the structure would still be incomprehensible.
Oh, there's more. Half an hour ago, sentences conjured by ChatGPT were on the screen.
Yes, Chat GPT, the nadir of the nadir.
The most potent, shameful desperation had compelled me to press that trigger. For the first time ever, I had copied and pasted a machine's words as my own work. I'm still too ashamed to think about it. Every time I do, all of my previous teachers' faces appear, their endearing encouragment almost tangible. A badge of regret and failure is what I should be wearing, because I have never stooped so low in my life.
Now, it's 2:46 in the morning, and my eyelids are not athletes of staying awake. Of course, they try with unwavering strength, but the battle's too great, guys. Invariably, I will fall asleep in under an hour. Yet, my subconscious, bless its morals, can't let ChatGPT's scrambled and inhumane essay be the final draft.
...It's going to be a tiring night, and there is a high chance of dinner being heaved and regurgitated.
***
Apparently no one's superhuman.
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