We live the age of algorithm. They’re the magic sauce which keeps our machines running. Their omnipotence has grown to a point where some see our bodies’ and minds’ inner workings as algorithms[1] – just like former epochs saw the universe or a mechanical turk in every human being. And – like all men-made gods – algorithms, too, are demonized,
I feel awkward about being liked[1]. On the surface, of course, just like all of us, I like to be liked[2]: I smile when someone gives me flowers or offers me a glass of wine; I feel uplifted when my words and actions – or even trivial things like pieces of clothing I’m wearing – receive a compliment; I nod in friendly appreciation when my posts of home-made bread, rainbow bodied avatars, or witty bits of wisdom uttered by my son attract responses in my social media feeds.
