>2050
>I am 90 years ago.
> Wake up in my preservation pod. Piss down one tube,suck out breakfast from another. A waifu-bot sticks the first joint into the air intake. As the THC bathes my neurons,I start my work day.

>The holo projector tosses up the current strip. Then the yelling begins.

>The Art Jarvis patiently arranges the 3d models based on my original artwork according to my instructions, coniptions, kvetching and contempt. A screen capture is the final product, and I have long settled on the look of the main characters that I could devote my time to telling stories using AI assistance instead of physically rendering them. New material is prompted into existence as needed,running through iterations until I am satisfied with the results. Me arguing with the Art-Jarvis is streamed live and is pronounced hysterical by everyone except the two of us living the comedy.

>I pause occasionally to address my waifu-bots,some making alternate stories in the same fashion from my plot outlines and subject to my approval, some attending housework and such,some there to constantly fondle my junk and to be groped by my cold shakey hands.

Hopefully it will happen sooner.
Hopefully...it will happen.

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Eventually AI will become so widespread that accusations stop and it's the status quo. At that point in time, only real artists will continue to…