Built on Blood, Sweat, and Dial-up

 

The older generation didn’t grow up with technology; we grew through it. We didn’t get dropped into the digital ocean with floaties and Wi-Fi—no, we were shoved into the shallow end with bricks tied to our ankles, expected to dog-paddle through dial-up and BIOS screens. Every step forward was paved with trial, error, and the occasional corrupted floppy disk that felt like God Himself had betrayed you.

We built our knowledge brick by brick—burnt fingers on soldering irons, the sweet hum of cathode-ray monitors, and the patience of saints waiting for “You’ve Got Mail.” Our reward? Watching the younger generation mock us because we “don’t get it.” They take for granted the very luxuries we bled bandwidth to create. It’s like criticizing a blacksmith for not knowing how to ride a Tesla.

And now, here comes the irony parade: we use AI, ChatGPT specifically, and suddenly we’re “lazy.” As if decades of memorizing command lines, troubleshooting IRQ conflicts, and surviving Windows ME didn’t earn us the right to offload a little brainwork onto silicon. Funny how the kids who Google the word “irony” are the first to tell us we’re “cheating.”

Truth is, tools don’t make people weaker—they just shift the battlefield. A calculator didn’t ruin math; it freed us from spending eternity carrying the one. Spellcheck didn’t kill writing; it just spared us from red ink-induced PTSD. And AI? It’s not the villain; it’s just the next evolution of thinking. If anything, refusing to use it is like rejecting indoor plumbing because “the outhouse builds character.”

But here’s the kicker—the same kids mocking us today will be tomorrow’s fossils. One day, they’ll be squinting at their outdated neural implants while their children beam pure thought-to-cloud, scoffing at how “primitive” it was to still rely on words. Every generation thinks it’s the final boss of progress, only to find out it was just a tutorial level.

So laugh at me for using ChatGPT if you want. Just remember—without us clunky “prehistoric” techies, you wouldn’t have your precious playground at all. We carried the torch through the darkness of 56k static. We kept the flame alive with cracked AOL CDs and late-night LAN parties. And yes, we’ve earned the right to let a machine help draft an email.

After all, I’m amused by my own muse—and my muse these days happens to be an algorithm.