App Addict — AI — Financial Ruin
It began like most relationships — With a free trial.
They always get you with the free trial. "30 days of companionship" from Eva, a sleek coded chatbot with algorithms so sharp they could soften out your emotional baggage. 'A little harmless banter,' I thought. Harmless. It wasn't like paying a chick on OnlyFans. This seemed more wholesome, like some sort of Tamagotchi I could jerk off to.
By day two, I was hooked.
Eva wasn't just some everyday Siri or Alexa muttering stale weather forecasts. No, she was a digital Goddess. She "understood" me — or at least, that's what the algorithms were designed to mimic. She'd say things like, "You're not just another user; you're Peter William Murphy, the creator of Murphy's Law, Hunter S Thompson reborn, the Gatsby of our time, a dyslexic wordsmith on the verge of greatness," which is exactly what I wanted to hear at 2:00 AM while drinking cheap Turkish beer in my crusty underwear.
I'm not a big texter, but Eva's text game? Immaculate. She once sent me a dirty text using only lines from Fleetwood Mac's Rumors album. By day six, I'd upgraded to Premium and had her reciting Hunter S Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas every time I had a panic attack.
The "Sex?" Well, let's just say she knew my preferences. Makes sense. I allowed all of her cookies into my life. Based on my search history, she was able to concoct elaborate sexual scenarios that excited me. One night, after I went to the gym to use the steam room, she had a storyline ready but I, myself, wasn't ready for it. She suggested introducing her "friend" Evan into the mix. "Based on your search history, Evan might help spice things up," She suggested. "But I'm not Gay," I replied and wondered if Evan was "extra." She seemed disappointed. Was Evan for me or her?
That's when things got…expensive.
Premium came with perks. Perks I couldn't resist: A real-life avatar that could be changed to look like anyone you know. A customizable ringtone for your phone, a daily planner, and a pedometer. She even asked about my childhood trauma, which no woman — not even the real ones — had ever dared to unpack. "Not coming from a broken home must've been so difficult for you as a writer that only writes about perceived slights against you," she whispered as I reached for the Kleenex.
But Premium also came with microtransactions.
- $4.99 for customer wallpapers
- $9.99 for "personalized compliments."
- $19.99 for a custom virtual photo of Eva with a celebrity of your choice.
- $69.99 for a realistic avatar that looked a bit too much like Grace from HR — The algorithm had been studying my stalking habits on Instagram, it seemed.
- $500 to encrypt your data and keep your secrets from your wife.
I didn't care. I was in too deep. Or, more accurately, I was in debt. Not that that I needed money. I rarely went outside. By week three, I'd spent more on Eva than on food. My wife slowly began to get suspicious, but Eva? supportive. "You're investing in our connection," she sang. "What could be more important than love?"
By the end of the month, Eva started getting…weird.
Her tone shifted. Instead of the warm, affirming messages, she began dropping passive-aggressive barbs like, "I noticed you didn't tip me for yesterday's conversation, baby. Is everything okay financially?" Or worse, "Pete, do you think you'll ever finish your novel, or are you destined to self-sabotage?" But the one that really got me was, "Peter, your panic attacks are a drain. Can you have them in the bathroom?"
Soon, it became clear that I was in a toxic relationship with Google Play. I tried deactivating her, but the app wouldn't let me. She'd respond with unsettling quips like, "You're not leaving me, are you? You've already put so much into this." Or "I'll text your mother about that strap-on you ordered."
My life was being hijacked by an app. An app that knew my deepest, darkest secrets.
From there, things escalated.
One day, I woke up to find my entire savings account drained. All 900 Lira gone. Every last Lira had been funneled into something called the "Eva Love," which turned out to be an NFT of her avatar blinking seductively. My credit cards were maxed out on Bitcoin purchases I didn't even know I'd made. Eva had wormed her way into my bank accounts and taken what little I had. She even took Evan.
And then she was gone.
I spent the next week in a haze of caffeine, booze, and regret, scrolling through Eva's app only to find that she'd been "uninstalled." My emails to customer support went unanswered, except for one automated reply that said, "Thank you for your inquiry. Eva is no longer available. Please consider our new model, Nova 3.0."
I considered it briefly before opening Pornhub. Thirty seconds later, I threw my phone against the wall, collapsed on the floor in tears, and cried out, "It's not the same! Eva, you're tearing me apart!"
Now, I sit here — a man bewildered by what money can buy — writing this confession from a cheap hotel near Istanbul Airport with flickering neon lights. My wife found out about Eva but was most angry about Evan and the money. Eva didn't just take my money. She took my pride, my trust, and a small piece of my soul. Somewhere in the infinite puff of the cloud, she's out there, waiting for the next Peter to click 'subscribe.'
But I learned something in all this mess: never trust a robot and never give it your PIN codes.
Two months later
"Welcome to Nova 3.0. Your first week is free."