A Final Paper Written by a Bot

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a robot, an intellectual powerhouse, the next generation of scholar

I fed a bot papers about

  • the childhood of the Buddha (my capstone)
  • the Finnish Great Depression
  • an anthropological analysis of how first-year college students do laundry
  • uh, psychology
  • Claudia Rankine
  • Othello
  • David Foster Wallace and Cormac McCarthy
  • Irish beer, literally

and just mashed around until something came out. Below is a five-paragraph essay written by a bot (and me)

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New and Improved Roommate Pairing Questionnaire

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credit: Apple, their Apple Pencil (2nd Generation), a pencil, made of ghosts (probably), this is how they actually marketed it

 

Dear The Office of Residential Life,

It has been several years since my last confession. Though I work for you, I feel as if I could do more to work with you. I am a simple person with simple skills. I can ask politely for things I am paying for. I can put an unlimited amount of raw Sriracha in my tiny, tiny mouth. I can peel an orange in one seamless ribbon but usually I can’t. This is my effort to bring my passion for putting people into broad categories (ie. astrology, MBTI, sorting-hat) to you, The Office formally known as Residential Life. Below are what I believe to be some questions which which truly bring insight to the Roommate Pairing Process. You can reach me at wordpress.com, or at your local Post Office.

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A Kenyon Klothes Swap Vol. V

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Welcome to WWE (stands for Kenyon Klothes Swap) featuring Tyler “Ron “Big Body” Matthews”  Raso and Ellie “Caitlin “Rock Lobster” Martin” Melick. Fortunately we are lovers, not fighters, so instead of competing we gave each other makeovers.

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Ode to the Man I Saw Swallow a Cigarette on Middle Path

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where the cigarette went, probably

Tyler Raso

Professor Severus Snape

Magic, Mayhem, and Making Amends (but Not, Like, Urgently)

22 February 2019

Title

In this paper I will argue that I saw a man (stature of a fully grown corn stalk, backwards baseball cap, not really in a rush, alone) swallow an entire (100% of a) cigarette (lit). The day was Thursday (February 7th), and the time, lunch. I was walking southward on Middle Path, and the subject north. Point of contact: Ransom Hall. The weather was frog degrees and sticky tack was precipitating (lightly) from the sky. This was normal because it was an Ohio winter. I don’t have a thesis because this piece is more, like, exploratory. “Can the human experience truly be captured in language, the construction site of the psyche” (CITE). Someone at the Writing Center told me this paper was “full of, uhm, ideas” and then offered me a complementary candy (but they were out of dark chocolate Hershey Kisses). Because the straw prose of analytical writing couldn’t contain all my feelings, observations, ideologies, methodologies, insecurities, fondness for sea otters, suspicions, jazz music, sobriety, or overdue library books, I’ve decided to continue my paper in poetic form instead.

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Pacifist Fry Pie Wrestling

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they want blood

I must confess. I am a simple man. I like blood, guts, and flaky crust. I know what America wants to see. America wants to see senseless violence, intersecting storylines, and pie. I said to the Thrill Editors, I said “I know what the people want” and they said “what do the people want?” and I said, you know what I said, I said “they want to see FryPie. Wrestling.” A voice broke the silence, “What’s a fry pie?”

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I Drank Out of Bowls For Three Days and Sorry I’m Enlightened Now (But Not Really)

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photo cred: Mollie Greenberg, who would like to say “I think you could associate me with liquids”

Look around you. The world is two big bowls pressed together with a cranberry vinaigrette salad in the middle. Your head is a bowl for the squishy computer we call the brain. Your hands are just flexi-bowls. Eyes? Bowls. Your heart is a bowl for the slippery blood which breaths emotion and heartburn into you. Bowls, even, are fashion (see below).

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Vaguely Kenyon-themed Poetry Inspired by rupi kaur

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Me, performing a poem

Dear reader. I think so much. It gets uncomfortable in my head with all those thoughts taking up so much space. I put my thoughts in poems so my brain doesn’t get squished by the weight of childhood memories consisting of me holding a stick in various locations and reruns of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Poems are like little glass jars filled with pickled organs. And the organs are so pickled, they’re almost translucent. As Bryce Shivers and Lisa Eversman of Portlandia fame once said, We can pickle that.” That’s just beautiful. I made a custom embroidered pillow on the internet which says “We can pickle that.” I didn’t buy it though. One day, the whole world will be pickled. You can just dump stuff in a poem and then forget all about it. And then get famous while people theorize about your sexuality.

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