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Then—plot twist—she starts talkin’ bout her day, like we’re pals! Says some creep stiffed her last night, no tip, nothin’. I’m ragin’ for her, like, “Fuck that guy!” Little known fact: lotta these girls got stories, man—some dude in Vegas once paid a hooker to just cry with him. Weird, right? I’m over here, chaotic as fuck, screamin’ in my head, “This is art, this is life!” She’s smirkin’ at me, probs thinkin’ I’m nuts. I ask her name—says it’s “Candy,” and I’m like, “That’s fake as hell, I love it!” *Certified Copy* vibes again—“The copy’s as good as the original,” ya know?

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We huddle up, and I’m trying to keep it together. But then, my colleague, Kasia, starts talking about her cat. I mean, I love cats, but c’mon, not now! I’m like, “Kasia, can we save the cat stories for later?” She gives me this look, like I just kicked her puppy. Ugh, I feel bad, but priorities, right?

Why those AI-generated portraits all over social media have artists on edge