I Asked ChatGPT to Sort Out My Life

This is what happened

When you’re down on your luck, you’ll try just about anything.

“What have I got to lose?” you tell yourself. “It can’t get any worse?”

So, a few days ago, I typed a question into ChatGPT:

Can you sort out my life?

If you’ve used ChatGPT before, you’ll know it always gives you loads of options. Just like real life. There’s rarely one simple fix to anything.

When I was in my early thirties, I went to therapy to work through some things. I naively assumed it was going to be straightforward: I tell the therapist what’s wrong, and he tells me how to fix it.

Anyone who’s spent more than five minutes on the couch (I went for two years) knows that’s not how it works. The therapist nudges. But you do the solving.

So there I was, staring at this long list of AI-generated life-fixes:

— See a doctor.
— Try counselling.
— Speak to your boss.
— Get a new job.
— Reconnect with your family, partner, kids, and friends.
— Buy a car (odd one).
— Take a holiday.
— Earn more.
— Exercise.
— Pick up a hobby.
— Meditate.
— Breathe.

It was a list I could have written myself on the back of a Cornflake packet.

Proof that when it comes to matters of the heart, AI is limited, and you might get more wisdom from your Aunt Janet and Uncle Dave.

Although there was one suggestion I hadn’t considered:

“Get a pet: a cat, a dog, a rabbit or a fish.”

I already have a cat. Dogs stress me out. And rabbits run in the fields where I live in their thousands.

But a fish? Hm. That might work.

When I was a kid, I lived with my grandparents after my mum had died, and my dad was too busy working. It was a sad time, but I enjoyed it.

My grandfather played Chopin, Brahms, and Liszt on the piano, and my grandmother cooked enough food to feed a small army. Steak pies, lemon cake, fish and chips, and cups of strong tea that tasted like vinegar.

On Sundays, Gran would drink a few bottles of Guinness (her mother was Irish) and always offered me a small glass, which I eagerly drank, embracing the 1/8th Irish in me.

Looking back, and despite the grief that brought me there, it was one of the happiest times in my life. Music. Food. Guinness. Love. And fish.

But not battered fish. Real fish.

For some strange reason — my grandparents were never ones for gimmicks or gadgets — they had a brightly lit fish tank in the corner of the living room.

It sat quietly near the tiny TV my grandfather reluctantly allowed my grandmother to have so she could watch her old black-and-white films on. The tank was big enough for two goldfish, about four inches long.

I’d stare at them for hours. The tank was like a second TV, only better. While my grandfather played tricky piano pieces in the next room, the fish drifted silently through the water. And for those moments, I forgot my mother was gone, and my father was away.

Happy days in a strange, mixed-up kind of way.

Fast forward forty years, and there I was, face to face with a computer program telling me to buy a fish tank.

Nostalgia hit me like a wave. Maybe it would help. Perhaps that stillness, that soft movement, might calm me. Transport me back to a simpler time. Why not? For 50 bucks, I can get a small tank complete with two goldfish and an air pump. It’s even got a light.

With one small purchase, I could be back in my grandmother’s parlour, sipping Guinness, listening to Brahms.

If nothing else, it would certainly be cheaper than going to therapy. And certainly more fun.

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How about some more worn-out comedy here?

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