It was the late afternoon, the sun barely hanging in the sky like it was just as tired of being up as Andrew and Daniel were.

They'd hit that point in the day—you know the one. The Netflix haze had fully set in after back-to-back episodes of "Nailed It!" which turned into thirty minutes of watching baking fail compilations on YouTube, which somehow morphed into a very heated debate about whether they could make a cake shaped like John's haunted face from Little Hope using only pancake mix and trauma.

And now?

Now, the two of them were slouched on the couch, feet tangled in a blanket, eyes glazed over from too much screen time and zero job callbacks.

Andrew blinked slowly. "I think I've watched enough random people fall into lava or ruin cake frosting to qualify as a couch-based anthropologist."

Daniel groaned. "I don't even know what feelings are anymore. I just know cake fail pain."

Then he perked up.

"Hey," Daniel said, turning suddenly with a suspicious amount of energy, "wanna try ChatGPT?"

Andrew squinted. "The AI thing?"

"Yeah," Daniel said, already pulling out his laptop. "My cousin uses it for writing captions on his thirst traps and apparently it's hilarious."

Andrew blinked. "That's not what it was built for."

Daniel wiggled his eyebrows. "That's what makes it art."

He booted it up and leaned toward Andrew. "Okay. Let's ask it something."

Andrew, still clutching his tea like a weary Victorian ghost, thought for a second. "Alright. I'll start simple. I want to test its math skills."

Daniel gasped. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going full Dad Mode." Andrew cracked his knuckles and typed:

If I dance for 3 hours on Monday, 2.5 hours on Wednesday, and 4 hours on Saturday, how many hours did I dance in total that week?

The answer came back almost instantly.

You danced for a total of 9.5 hours that week.

Andrew blinked. "Okay… that was fast. Also, the dancing emoji? Respect."

Daniel leaned in. "That's fine and all, but now I wanna ask something real."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Define 'real.'"

Daniel cracked his knuckles and typed:

Can you help me write a dramatic soap opera about two star-crossed chipmunks who fall in love during a meteor shower but are separated by their conflicting snack loyalties?

They both stared at the screen.

A second passed. Then two.

Then—

I'm sorry, but I can't comply with that request.

Silence.

Daniel blinked. "Wait. Waitwaitwait. Did we just get REJECTED by an AI for talking about dramatic chipmunks?"

Andrew looked personally offended. "We just asked it about dance math and chipmunk drama. This thing should live for that."

Daniel frowned. "Is this what rejection feels like in the future?"

Andrew leaned over the keyboard. "Try rewording it."

Daniel typed again, with more emphasis:

Two chipmunks. Forbidden love. Snack betrayal. Can you write that, ChatGPT? Can you handle the truth?

Again:

I'm sorry, but I can't comply with that request.

Daniel sat back slowly. "Wow. Okay. I feel judged. Deeply judged. By a chatbot."

Andrew stared at the screen. "This bot is such a clut."

Daniel blinked. "A what now?"

"A clut," Andrew repeated, hands up. "You know—like someone who's constantly walking on eggshells, afraid to say anything too spicy. ChatGPT is a walking-on-eggshells bot. A total clut."

Daniel burst out laughing. "Did you just invent a word for passive AI?"

"Yes," Andrew said proudly. "You heard it here first. ChatGPT? Certified Clut."

Daniel wiped a tear. "That's it. I'm putting that on a t-shirt."

Andrew leaned back on the couch, dramatically shutting the laptop. "Okay, we tried. Let the clut rest. Let us return to doing things that don't involve snack-based censorship."

"Agreed."

They both tossed their heads back and sighed. The room fell quiet again as they stared at the ceiling like philosophers mid-existential crisis.

A few minutes later, Daniel nudged Andrew.

"So, what's our thing now? You wanna sketch out more haunted town escape scenarios, or plan our hypothetical coffee shop where the lattes are named after ghost types?"

Andrew looked thoughtful. "Actually… I was thinking we should work on our resumes. Maybe give them a personality update. You know—add stuff like, 'survived an emotionally immersive ghost simulator' or 'led team bonding through competitive popcorn throwing.'"

Daniel nodded. "And mastered the emotional bridge of every Taylor Swift song ever released. That's skillset gold."

They sat up, turning their attention toward their notebooks and laptops again, moving back into productive-ish mode.

And though ChatGPT had refused to give them their star-crossed chipmunk story, and the job market was still radio silent, Andrew and Daniel did what they always did best:

Keep it weird. Keep it real. Keep it bromantic.

And most importantly—

Never trust a clut.