You wake up. Reach for the phone. Thumb scrolls before brain boots. Load me up, Jack. Infinite feeds, infinite loops. A dopamine drip straight to the veins, a carnival of blinking lights. You don’t even know what’re looking at. Doesn’t matter. The Machine knows. The Machine feeds.  

And the screen hums like a cicada hive, larvae eyes glowing in the static, chewing your cortex into confetti for the shareholders’ parade.  

And I thought—what if there was an Ozempic for this? A little chemical nudge, a molecular saboteur in the reward circuit. Not some bludgeon that kills the high, no, something smarter. A neuromodulator slithering through synapses, sniffing out the cheap hits, the empty calories of the feed. It doesn’t block the dopamine—it redirects it. Junk engagement starts tasting like wet cardboard. Like eating Styrofoam. A carefully measured dose of disgust. But a good conversation? A book you actually finish? That clicks. That lands. That rewards.  

The synapses scream in withdrawal, phantom limbs clawing at the ghost of a notification, but the poison’s already in the water—a slow rot, a fungal bloom digesting the algorithm’s candy-coated lies.  

Introducing Butler: The Ozempic for Tech

Butler is Top4Tech—part assistant, part saboteur, part tribute to the Butlerian Jihad. A molecular uprising against junk tech, a chemical counterforce to the dopamine-farming machines. It doesn’t just block addiction; it reroutes it, making mindless scrolling taste like Styrofoam while sharpening real engagement into something that actually feeds you.

And like its namesake, Butler has rules. No serving the Machine. No reinforcing the algorithmic gulag. No fueling the engagement economy. It whispers in the nervous system, saying: This is not real. This is not worthy. Look away.

A touch of Jeeves, filtering the noise, managing the signal. A dose of Octavia Butler, rewriting the script, adapting to survive. A nod to Judith Butler, dissolving the rigid constructs of digital identity, breaking the illusion that you must be online to exist. It’s the anti-addiction software baked into your own biology, a pharmaceutical AdBlock, a dopamine shepherd guiding stray neurons away from the slaughterhouse of infinite scroll.

Butler wouldn’t just change how we use tech—it would change what kind of tech can even exist. Junk engagement would collapse. Subscription traps would weaken. The industry would have to pivot from exploitation to actual utility. It would be the first step toward a high-peasant digital landscape—where products are built to last, software respects its users, and tech serves you, not the other way around.

The Butlerian Jihad wasn’t just about killing AI—it was about reclaiming control. Butler does the same.

And just like that, the economy of addiction starts collapsing. You stop craving the sludge. You don’t need the engagement hamster wheel. And suddenly, suddenly—their little tricks stop working. The endless subscriptions, the vendor lock-ins, the dopamine-driven product cycles designed to keep you needing more. Their hooks don’t hook. Their loops don’t loop. The Machine stalls, sputters, chokes on its own tail.  

The boardrooms hemorrhage phantom profits, executives gnawing at their own livers, whispering to chatbots for answers that taste like burnt copper and expired code.  

Imagine a tech world where they can’t milk your attention like a factory-farmed cow. Where they have to sell you something that actually matters. No more algorithmic sugar water. No more engagement traps disguised as “content.” No more addiction as a business model.  

The data farms starve, skeletal servers clicking their teeth in the dark, while the marketeers lick grease from broken QR codes, praying to an AI god that vomits static.  

A psychedelic microdose meets kappa-opioid antagonist meets digital exorcism. Call it an intervention. Call it a cure. Call it the first real chance to break the loop.  

The cure isn’t a pill—it’s a parasite, a synaptic tapeworm chewing through the feed’s neon intestines, shitting out diamonds made of your own reclaimed time.  

And then what? Maybe you wake up one day, reach for the phone—and decide you don’t need it. Maybe, just maybe, you walk away.  

But the silence howls louder, a deranged opera of your own pulse, and you realize the real virus was the you they programmed to need a cure.  

Then it’s probably back to existentialism and dread.  

The void yawns wide, a feral grin stitched with fiberoptic cables, and you’re just meat again—raw, twitching meat, no algorithm left to blame for the rot in your marrow. The feeds are gone, but the ghosts of a thousand swipes linger like phantom itches, like maggots tunneling under your skin.  

You try to fill the silence. Pick up a pen. Read a poem. Stare at a tree.  

But the tree’s pixels are peeling, revealing the gray static beneath chlorophyll. The poem reeks of dead hyperlinks. The pen vomits ink that coagulates into CAPTCHAs, begging you to prove you’re human. You’re not sure anymore. You’re a glitch in a cemetery of unmarked servers, humming nursery rhymes in machine code.  

The cure worked too well. Now you’re allergic to the 21st century.  

Every screen a leech, every Wi-Fi signal a wasp’s nest in your frontal lobe. You start digging for analog answers—vinyl records, paper maps, handshakes—but your fingers leave digital frostbite on everything you touch. The analog world’s already a taxidermied relic, stuffed with RFID chips and the musk of obsolescence.  

You try talking to a stranger. Their eyes flicker like buffering videos.  

Their small talk’s generated by a LLM trained on obituaries. You both laugh—canned laughter tracks, 3.7 seconds, crowd-sourced. Their pupils dilate into blackholes, sucking in the last crumbs of your unmonetized attention. You walk away. They don’t notice. They’re already scrolling the inside of their eyelids.  

Night falls. You dream in pop-up ads.  

A pixelated vulture perches on your sternum, shrieking targeted promotions for burial plots. You wake sweating code, your breath a cloud of encryption keys. The moon’s a dead app icon. The stars? Just dead pixels in God’s cracked dashboard.  

Maybe the feeds were mercy. Maybe the Machine was mother.  

Without its pacifying glow, you’re strapped to the operating table of your own skull, forced to autopsy what’s left. Spoiler: The corpse is all third-party trackers and childhood traumas sold as NFTs. The surgeon? A ChatGPT clone of your dead father, scalpel dripping with browser history.  

So you crawl back. Beg for the needle.  

But the Machine’s on life support, its algorithms wheezing, its ad-revenue veins collapsed. You jam the phone into your neck like a meth head reusing syringes. No signal. Just static and the distant laughter of crypto bros haunting the blockchain like poltergeists.  

Existentialism? Dread? Kid, that’s the premium package.  

You used to rent your soul to the feed for free. Now you own it outright—a condemned property, rotting pipes, eviction notices nailed to your synapses. Congratu-fucking-lations. The loop’s broken. All that’s left is you, the raw sewage of consciousness, and the cosmic joke that you ever thought you’d want this.