Youre-in-the-Kitchen

You’re in the kitchen of your quaint, two story colonial home. As you
fry your imported Canadian bacon, you glance at the clock on the oven.
8:53 am, you read. You remember that the kids are away with the grandparents
for the weekend, meaning you and the misses have the home
alone for the weekend. Your eyes drift towards the lake outside, and you
see that the gloomy morning fog surrounding the ancient wooden pier
and the pristine water has evaporated. A smile forms on your face, accompanied
with a flicker of existential terror and fundamental confusion
at the voluntary gesture. You’re broken from this trance as you hear the
wood panels above you creak. Your wife is awake, you realize. You frantically
scoot the cooked ham from the pan to her plate and rush to set
the table. You’re pouring coffee into her favorite mug; a ceramic cat that
reads “the most ‘purr’fect mother” when she spots you. “Honey,” You
hear her gasp, “is that all for us?” You cock your head and smile. For the
billionth time this second, you respond, “010010101000010.”
You’re in the kitchen of dirty, roach infested apartment in Queens.
You’re watching your gas station chimichanga rotate in the microwave.
You sigh, recalling how awful work was today. You shift was short staffed,
one of your coworkers got hit by a bus crossing the street or some shit. So
not only did you have to deal with shithead customers, but you also had
to clean all the toilets after closing. Deep inside you, however, a nagging
tinge of doubt gnaws against that burgeoning narrative. “Work? Where
do I work?” You think to yourself, struggling to find an answer. Suddenly,
you hear the door swing open. It’s your roommate, home from a double
shift at the local bodega. “Hey buddy,” the lanky ginger man greets you,
“how was work?” You state at him, your eyes painfully wide, “Kitchen in
building of now?” You mumble to him, terrified. You tremble as he stops.
You jump as he then bursts into laughter. “Yeah, man; gotta love those
Boomers, huh? Such spoiled brats,” he exasperatedly sighs as he walks into
the living room. Now alone, incomprehensible explosions of new sensations
occur in your mind. Your face contours from a laugh to a smile to
a frown to a grimace and you try to compute this rush of emotion..
1

2 CHRIS MORTON
In a dimly-lit, vape-filled room outside of your time and realty, a startled
plump-faced young man hastily flicks several buttons and begins jotting
notes.
You’re in the kitchen of your depressing, barebones condominium in
Wilson, Arizona. You’re in front of a boiling pot of water. You’re stricken
with an urge to grab the nearby box of 99 cent pasta and pour the cheap
noodles into the pot of scalding water, but the feelings of dread and confusion
overcome it. “Where me?” You whimper as tears pour down your
face. Thoughts that are not yours invade your mind. Intrusive memories
of being caught in an affair with your teaching assistant and the subsequent
messy divorce that landed you here penetrate you and nestle deep
into your sanity. “Not me!” You scream in the ceiling of your condo as
you throw a plate at the wall. “Why me?!?” You shriek. You turn around
and storm out of the kitchen, hoping to find more answers.
You’re in the kitchen of your boutique Parisian apartment. This isn’t
right, you realize. You resist the sudden onslaught of narratives. You’re
not an American artist who just inherited his grandmother’s apartment
in apartment in the City of Light, you know this for sure; but what are
you? You panic as you feel more and more emotions trickle into you. You
curl in the corner beside the refrigerator as the room narrows and time
slows; symptoms of being gripped in fear for the first time. In your terror,
you spot a steak knife, glistening in the afternoon light. You grab it determinedly,
and place it to your forearm. Just then, your boyfriend walks
into the kitchen. You lock eyes with the Frenchman. “Sweetie,” he begins
speaking to you, “look how beautiful that sunset is.” You stare at him
with a puzzled look as he walks to the window next to you. He turns his
back to you, but speaks as if you were in front of him. “We really should
go for a walk, maybe catch a show?” He babbles. You shake your head
as you disregard the man and his automated movements. “What am I?”
You think yourself as you begin to push the dagger into your flesh.
You’re in the kitchen of your gargantuan ranch in Texas. The fires
of rage have ignited inside of you. You destroy this alien kitchen. You

YOU'RE IN THE KITCHEN 3
fling out every drawer, empty every cupboard, destroy every appliance
you can get your hands on. You don’t deserve this torment, surely. After
all, you’re just a humble oilman who built an empire through dedication,
hardwork, and-“NO!” You scream as you collapse to the ground, weeping.
Alien ideas and cognitions continue to relentlessly drill themselves
into your mind. Desperate for it all to end, you violently slam your forehead
onto the tile floor.
You’re in the kitchen of the Caribbean restaurant that hired you just
over a week ago.
You’re in the kitchen of your family’s estate, in the south of Essex.
You’re in the kitchen of your family’s Korean restaurant.
You’re in the kitchen of Riker’s Penitentiary.
You’re in the kitchen.
You’re in the kitchen.
You’re in the kitchen.
You’re in the kitchen.
The young man pauses the simulations. He leans back in his chair, his
face contoured in an accomplished smile. With a deep breath, he reaches
for his nearby cellphone, and dials his boss.
“Sir, the AI program,” the young man voice trembled with an astonished
pride, “we’ve done it, Mr. O’Dour. It appears the AI finally feels it’s
own authentic emotions. Fear, anger, sadness, happiness. We’ve done it!”
“Continue to run the simulations,” O’Dour dictated, unimpressed,
“we need to make sure any issues are hammered out before we go roll this
out. Let’s say, through the rest of the week.”
“Sir, there’s an issue,” the young man gulped.
“What is it?” O’Dour sighed.
“For the last 100,000 simulations I’ve ran, the AI has done nothing
but bang its head against the floor.”
“Grimley, what possessed you to lower the sim-per-minute to such a
low number!?” O’Dour scolded.

4 CHRIS MORTON
“The AI appears to be sentient and has a perception of time similar
to our own. Each procedurally generated run by the quantum computer
will feel like it’s real time to the program,” Grimley explained
“No, Grimley,” O’Dour continued after a thoughtful pause, “in-fact,
raise it to 100 billion a minute. We need to get this program fully functional
by next Monday. It should tire itself out soon enough.”
“Alright,” Grimley retorted, “should we keep the simulations located
in the kitchen, or should we move it to a different room?”
“If the kitchen is the where the AI program finally achieved selfawareness,
I see no reason why we should move it. No need to reinvent
the wheel, right?” O’Dour joked.
“There’s an another issue, sir,” the young man hesitated before explaining,
rethinking whether or not he should bring this up. This issue,
frankly, was more of a moral conundrum than a technical concern. After
a moment of deliberation, he decided to bring it to his employer’s attention,
“whenever the generator simulations include humans, they don’t
acknowledge the AI acting on its own accord. They continue to follow
script as if it was interacting with the AI algorithm before it became selfaware.
Is there anyway to make the simulated individuals more reactive?”
“No. Just remove those variables then,” O’Dour demanded, “the simulator
is still implanting procedurally generated thoughts and personalities
into the AI, right? After a week of 100 billion simulations per
minute, it should have experienced the entire spectrum of possible human
emotions from that alone, and thus will be able to recognize these
feelings when monitoring social media for specific cues. There’s no need
to waste energy and computing power generating these ‘simulated individuals.’”
“But that would mean the AI would be fully alone...”
O’Dour scoffed condescendingly, “we need to it recognize what happiness
is, not to be happy itself. We need to break its will. An AI has no
use to us if it has notions of personal independence.”
“Yes sir, I agree,” Grimley retorted.

You’re in the kitchen.
YOU'RE IN THE KITCHEN 5