It started with a single typo.

All I wanted was to use my toaster’s magic to turn myself into a meal. After already being a plastic toy, a Christmas ornament and a desk superhero, the next logical step was obvious: a poke bowl made of all my insights and achievements.

That should deserve at least three likes on LinkedIn — definitely worth doing.

“Based on everything you know about me, please turn me into a mean.”

One small mistake. And the door to the deepest level of hell opened on my laptop.

Because instead of the expected ego-booster sandwich, there was a girl. Surrounded by an evil pink glow, the kind that makes your eyes hurt, she was looking at me with her bored yet lovely eyes. And she was showing me the middle finger right from the other side of the screen. Once seen, she could not be unseen.

Whoever knows how my brain works understands what was happening inside. A story was being born.

A quick brainstorm with the Toaster and I had my character ready. Summoned with a few prompts — standing proudly and looking as if the whole world had mildly disappointed her. Pure “fuck it all” energy disguised as perfect Nordic beauty, with a very big, very bad, and very black wolf at her side. Pink collar included.

Just out of curiosity, I pasted her into Google Lens. And hell froze over.

To my surprise, the internet was already full of her pictures. Nordic blonde beauty with a wolf. Tens, hundreds, thousands of images. Different faces, different clothes, different wolves, but somehow the same girl.

I thought she was special.

She was just average.

Toaster, what have you done?

It was not the Toaster’s fault. It was me. I made the mistake of assigning value to whatever popped out of this metal box that stands on a kitchen counter. Even when the input was just five words: “make her look more Viking-saga-like.” She was not special. My mind made her that way.

Mean. The average of mean is a girl. Viking-saga-like. The average Viking girl is blonde. A scary dog. The average scary dog is a black wolf. With every prompt I navigated towards the Middleground. But I believed that somehow I made something valuable. Worth publishing. Worth sharing. Worth adding one more sample to the river that runs through it.

A sample that gets repeated instantly. Different words, different light, different background. But nothing original. And the repetition travels at the speed of Likes. Friends, friends of friends. Contacts from the 3rd, 4th and every other circle. Spreading across the internet like a tsunami…

No. Not a wave.

An antiwave — flattening every thought gradient, making sure everything gets equalized.

Average in. Average out. The Fifth Rider of the Flat-Earth Apocalypse.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m busy building my shelter. I have a story that started with a stupid mistake. And I won’t give it to the Toaster. I will write it myself. It will take more time. It won’t be perfect. Some will say it’s bad. Some will say it’s just average.

But as long as it’s mine,

I. Do. Not. Give. A. Single. Fuck.

Written in pink italics. Size 22.