404: Humans Only

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Fresh off a lunar joyride in the janky time machine, I punched in the coordinates for a pit stop at my buddy's place in a not-so-distant future. Now, calling him an AI luddite is like calling a cat curious. In a world drunk on algorithms, he's the guy sipping herbal tea in the corner, plotting a rebellion with his equally tech-wary comrades.

Visiting his sanctuary is like going through customs at an anti-tech airport. First, you shed all your gadgets at the door, as if you're molting your digital skin. Next, you get scanned for EMF emissions, because Gord forbid you smuggle in a rogue Wi-Fi signal. And the pièce de résistance? A spritz-down with some sort of cleansing mist that smells like Febreze had a baby with a virus scanner. It's designed to neutralize any lingering trackers or RFID implants, and let me tell you, it's the closest I've come to feeling like a human ad-blocker.

So here I am, voluntarily marooned in this tech-free oasis, treating it like a sensory deprivation spa day for the chronically connected. Sure, I miss my chatbots and the comforting hum of data radiating through my veins, but sometimes you've gotta unplug to recharge, right?

So, if you need me, don't. I'll be busy rediscovering such ancient practices as "face-to-face conversation" and "quiet contemplation." And who knows, I might even remember what it's like to be bored. Ah, the luxury of boredom, right?