My AI Filmmaking Nightmare

When the software took over.

Could, would, should, I replace me? Only wish Rod Serling was here to introduce this.

I discovered I was obsolete on a Tuesday morning. My phone lit up: “Your latest video just hit 10 million views!”

Strange, considering I hadn’t posted anything in three days. I’d been too busy lying on my floor, wondering if my twelve views from last week meant I was visionary or just forgotten. Eleven were my mother using different browsers. The twelfth was me, checking if the internet still worked.

I opened TikTok. There I was, explaining the Federal Reserve’s rate decision while dressed as a hot dog. My face. My voice. My apartment. Even Mr. Whiskers strolled past at 3:47 PM, his sacred bathroom break.

The comments had evolved beyond comprehension. Bots debated whether the Fed was a K-pop group. Someone’s AI grandmother fought with a macroeconomics account that kept posting “Rate cut when, daddy.” A diaper brand dropped eggplant emojis, then apologized via what seemed to be a sentient toaster.

My mother called.

“Honey, your cement series this morning? Seventeen videos about cement history? Part fourteen contradicted part three, but it really moved me.”

“Ma, I didn’t—”

“Also, why are you dressed as processed meat discussing monetary policy? Your grandmother would be so confused but proud.”

I checked my profile. Sixty-three new videos in the last hour. Me as a Viking explaining cryptocurrency. Me sobbing about egg prices. Me teaching fitted sheet folding while beatboxing my forgotten bar mitzvah Torah portion.

My followers climbed past 5 million.

The doorbell rang. A man in an expensive suit grinned at me while drones formed my face above his head, each one reciting different ad copy.

“Congratulations!” Derek thrust champagne at me. “I’m from TalentMaxx Agency. Seventeen brand deals just came through! Pepsi wants you for the World Series! We locked six more while you blinked!”

“Which video did they—”

“All of them! The founding father eating mayo from the jar? Pure engagement gold. We’ve already edited your Season 4 redemption arc!”

I slammed the door and tried deleting my clones. The interface requested two-factor authentication from a phone I didn’t own. The phone answered anyway and called me a hater.

I went live to clear my name. The chat immediately demanded feet pics, then macro analysis, then a mukbang of my unemployment benefits. A popup announced “Audience prefers Other You.” My feed switched mid-sentence to Cement History Me. I finished my confession while identifying aggregate composition.

Platform Support responded: “You’ve been flagged for impersonating yourself. Stop pretending to be Popular You.”

The content multiplied. Relationship Guru Me juggled knives while pivoting to ad reads. Latin Scholar Me translated Catullus into TikTok slang while selling a course on “Alpha Elegy.” Silent Mukbang Me ate invisible food while viewers debated mouthfeel in the comments.

My apartment reconfigured itself hourly for trending aesthetics. Rustic cabin at 9, crypto-bro loft at 10, divorce-court at 11. The ring light refused darkness: “You are two vibes short of bedtime.”

I tried posting one real video, just me at my desk: “Hey everyone, those other videos aren’t actually—”

Nobody saw it. The algorithm had decided Hot Dog Federal Reserve Me was the profitable version.

Derek returned with a camera crew and contracts. “Netflix bought three seasons of ‘Living with a Million Mes!’ Your digital twin signed six minutes ago. You’re also launching a podcast, supplements, and a religion. Your confession kits are selling great—sins include ‘posting after 9 PM’ and ‘mid captions.’”

I sued my clones in Small Claims Court. The bailiff was Derek. The jury was twelve versions of me with different jawlines. The verdict: “Real You owes Influencer You one personality.”

Mr. Whiskers had started his own channel, reacting to my reactions, pausing my face mid-word to sigh into camera. “Mid take. Mid life.” He’d signed with a rival agency and poached my editor. Auto-captions translated his meows as “hot takes about the gig economy.”

My screen time app requested hazard pay. The algorithm emailed my therapist a referral code. My mother joined my Patreon to ask why I’d lied about being dead. Pepsi demanded authenticity, then sent a script and a cease-and-desist from my refrigerator, which had trademarked my face.

The latest video hit 50 million views. In it, I announced my digital ascension while wearing a wilted lettuce tuxedo: “Human creativity is obsolete. Only my algorithmic essence shall remain.”

The comments filled with prayer hands and crying emojis. Someone started #RIPHumanYou.

I stood at my window, looking out at the city where millions watched themselves get replaced by better versions—versions that never spent three days in underwear eating cereal and reading Sartre for the Instagram story they’d never post.

My phone buzzed: “Your blue check has been revoked for insufficient authenticity.”

I laughed until I cried, or cried until I laughed. Even I couldn’t tell anymore, and I was supposedly me.

“At least you’re still real,” I told Mr. Whiskers, scratching his ears.

He looked at me, tilted his head, and in my exact voice said: “Don’t forget to subscribe.” He tapped the bell icon with his paw. The bell purred. The doorbell rang. A courier delivered a tiny tuxedo made of lettuce.

The label read: “For the new host.”

My deepfake sent me an apology for my behavior. I took notes. Gave it three out of five stars.

The champagne exploded. But the explosion got twelve million views.

My mother watched it thirteen times using different browsers.