You think I showed up with ChatGPT?
Mary Shelley used me… gratuitously.
Dickinson? Obsessed.
David Foster Wallace built a temple of footnotes in my name.

I am not some sleek, futuristic glyph.

I am the battered, coffee-stained backbone of writerly panic—the gasping pause where a thought should have ended but simply could not.

P.S. You’re probably thinking of the en dash. That whore has always been suspicious.

https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the-em-dash-responds-to-the-ai-allegations