ChatGPT thinks I’m a Criminal and won’t date me.
Two months ago, the Faculty of Education at the University of Cambridge sent students an email concerning ChatGPT. This warned of the strict guidelines on student conduct and academic integrity, stressing that students must be the authors of their own work, and that the use of AI platforms such as ChatGPT would be dealt with under the University's disciplinary procedures. Though the email conceded that AI platforms were now being used as research tools worldwide, it stressed issues related to biases in the current information searching model, the questionable accuracy of content, and ethical concerns related to the use of large datasets and gathering data from users. In response I logged onto Open AI for a cheeky look.
“When something dies, we clone it” - the perks of a garden tended to by Cambridge research scientists.
Many think of Darwin College as the garden oasis of the University of Cambridge. Others see it as a kind of monastic escape from the contemporary world with its miniature islands, herb gardens and bee hives. Others only know it as having the classiest dive-bar you’ve ever seen. Regardless of what Cambridge residents know, everyone has heard rumors of the rare and ancient plants in our gardens - Jurassic living fossils, cloned trees, parasitic beings… something about a banana tree which can’t make bananas.
Darwinian Skinny Dipping, Drunk Drawing and the next adventure…
It’s surreal to think that I’m moving to Cambridge in just over 2 weeks. I’ve only been there once, in 2007 I think, and was escorted off the University premises for drunkenly skinny dipping in the early hours. “Efficient security”, I thought to myself, crossing the bridge away from the college and leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. I knew from experience that the University of East Anglia security definitely could not run that fast. The gates clanked shut as I pulled my underwear back on, and I marvelled at the beauty of the scene. I had bought the cheapest available Easyjet flights with some friends, returns to Valencia, and due to the timing we’d decided to crash on the floor of a friends’ friend’s Cambridge college dorm overnight.
Happy Pride everyone! (Except André).
I still remember the taunts from my Dad’s friend André; “Do you like Gilbert? Do you like George? Are you going to grow up and be like them?” I was around 5 or 6 years old, and my family was visiting the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao with friends. My Dad’s friend André was a pest, and since hearing me begging for the latest Polly Pocket toy for my birthday, had taken a particular interest in bothering me.
THE TRUTH ABOUT MY PIGEON: A STORY OF CRUELTY & RESILIENCE
The first time I encountered death was at the age of 5. I remember walking back from the park with my family and tripping on the torn and twisted corpse of a pigeon, burst open with its red and purple strewn across the tarmac. It had a snapped beak and crushed head, but its tortured eyes were wide open.