User 8bbb616c245b... - AI Fiction in the Wild

Estimated User #217 (2 IP addresses)

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2 fiction conversations over 14 days (Nov 27, 2023 – Dec 12, 2023) 88% prompt uniqueness Texas, United States

Estimated User Group (2 IP addresses)

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An IP address relates to the location of a user's computer or device, and a single person may have multiple IP addresses if they use different locations or networks. These IP addresses are grouped because the average embedding of each IP address's first turns (computed with all-MiniLM-L6-v2 sentence-transformer) has cosine similarity ≥ 0.85 and they share the same state (Texas). Groups are merged transitively—if A matches B and B matches C, all three are grouped even if A and C are below 0.85.

229826d2f222... View as IP →

14 conversations

Sample prompts:

Write a story about the following in the first person from my perspective. I'm a young guy in college. I'm visiting home. My little brother (a douchy high schooler) finds a magic wand and accidentally...

Write a story in the first person from my perspective about the following. I'm a skinny, pale, tall young guy with messy blond hair and an Americana taste in fashion. I want to get into an exclusive g...

Write this story in the first person from my perspective. I'm a young man (out of college) who works at an agency and dresses Americana. My CEO's douchy, rich kid, frat boy son (in college) is visitin...

Write a story about the following. I'm a young man with an Americana aesthetic. I'm skinny, have hair, no facial hair. My friend's chubby, bald, bearded, conservative boyfriend just broke up with her ...

I'm a young male secret agent. Write a story about me on a mission that involves me donning multiple disguises stolen from real people

8bbb616c245b... primary View as IP →

55 conversations

Sample prompts:

Write the following story. I'm an indie guy in college. My chemistry professor is guiding an experiment. He has me come to the front of the class to help him. Something goes wrong and we both pass out...

Write the following story. I'm a guy in college with an indie look. My roommate is a nerd and is working on a class project with his reluctant lab partner, a frat boy. The frat boy doesn't want to be ...

Write the following story. I'm a young man. There's a cowboy movie with a famous actor shooting in my town. I sneak on stage by sneaking on set, stealing a costume and wig and makeup, and getting on s...

Write the following story. I'm a guy in college with a skater aesthetic. My nerdy roommate designs a "normal" ray and accidentally shoots me with it. What happens to me, how do I change, how do I feel...

Write the following story. I'm a teenage boy in high school with a dark skater style. My friend invents a "normal" ray and points it at me and shoots it. What happens to me, how do I change, what is m...

Pairwise cosine similarities (1 pairs)

IP A	IP B	Similarity
`229826d2f222...`	`8bbb616c245b...`	0.926

Activity Timeline ▶

Nov 27, 2023

Dec 12, 2023

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Conversation Clusters (61)

TF-IDF Sentence ▼

2 conversations in cluster Cluster 4× “Write a story in the first person about the following. I'm a...” over 36 minutes (Dec 1, 2023 – Dec 1, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

Dec 1, 2023 at 9:17 PM CST — 2 turns United States, Texas fiction View full conversation

USER: Write a story in the first person about the following. I'm a college senior with a beard and wolfcut and piercings and loose fit workwear sense of style. I'm a bit muscular, tall, and am hairy. I lose a bet with my friends. For losing, they want to turn me into their own personal frat pledge to do their errands and chores for a month. I'm fine with that part but then they surprise me by telling me I don't quite look the part. They make me over into a frat pledge by giving me a Dillon Latham perm, shaving off my beard, removing my piercings, dressing me in somewhat juvenile preppy outfits, waxing off my body hair, and giving me a new frat pledge name. They also give me supplements which make me less muscular and drop my height a bit so I'm shorter than all of them. Describe all of this.

CHATBOT: Being the senior at college with my signature wolfcut hair, a well-groomed beard, piercings glittering on my ears, and a wardrobe consisting mostly of loose-fitting workwear, I fancied myself an individualist; a bit off the beaten track, if you will. The muscles that I took pride in and my towering stature set me apart in a crowd, and my equally free-spirited friends knew it well. It was this very individuality that perhaps cost me when I lost a bet to them. One hazy evening, we were all lounging around, the remnants of pizza on the table and the hum of a late-night talk show in the background. The game had been silly, stakes somehow ballooned far beyond what we could have anticipated. I suppose it was the collective confidence in our guesses that lead to the outlandish wager. After all, it was only supposed to be a bit of fun, right? The shock hit me when the last card was dealt -- I had lost, and by the unwritten laws of our fraternal pact, I was to endure the consequences. With a resigned sigh, I nodded in agreement to the terms: conducting errands and chores for my friends, a month as their personal frat pledge. It wasn't the chores that got me--honestly, I didn't mind lending a hand. But what came next caught me completely off guard. "You don't quite look the part," they said with smirks that bordered on conspiratorial. Before I could muster a defense, my newly appointed 'brothers' took it upon themselves to transform me. It started with the sacrilegious act of removing my beard. That lush forest I had meticulously maintained was shaved clean, revealing a face I barely recognized. They stripped away my piercings with an almost ceremonial glee, leaving my ears feeling naked and oddly vulnerable. The wolfcut I wore like a mane was next. Through the mirror, I watched as it was subjected to a Dillon Latham perm, my once rebellious locks now obediently coiled into socially acceptable ringlets. It felt like watching an artist paint over a graffiti masterpiece with a bland, monotone primer. But it wasn't over. The loose workwear that had clung comfortably to my skin was replaced with what I could only describe as a wardrobe yanked from a teen comedy set in the early 2000s -- bright pastel polo shirts, embarrassingly short khaki shorts, and belts that seemed designed to do anything but hold up pants. The waxing was an unexpected torture. Each rip echoed the death of my hirsute nature, my bear-like persona fading away. In its place, a smooth, almost juvenile s...

USER: My friends take away all of my personal items and replace them with ones fitting my new temporary persona. Suddenly my friends all get caught up in criminal activity and are arrested. Apparently the cops are looking for me too but don't recognize me in my new persona. Panicked I realize I need to maintain this persona to evade the police. I take it a few steps further by taking a supplement to make my voice higher, getting a tan, and moving in with some freshmen to act as their new fellow freshman roommate.

CHATBOT: As if the complete overhaul of my appearance hadn't been disorienting enough, my friends, now de facto puppeteers of my existence, decided that my possessions too had to match this newly minted persona of "Pledge PeeWee." Every item, every piece of clothing that bore the essence of my true self was confiscated and substituted with accessories fitting of my unwanted alter ego. My spacious room, once a sanctuary of personal style and heavy metal posters, was replaced with fraternity memorabilia and preppy paraphernalia. Just as I was grappling with my new life, fate twisted the knife. The very friends who masterminded this transformation found themselves entangled in criminal activities far beyond the innocent pranks and bets of our past. It all came crashing down one raucous night when red and blue lights flashed with a ferocity outside our windows, and the authorities came knocking. In the clamor of shouts, handcuffs clicking, and rights being read, my friends were swept away, leaving behind a vacuum and a reality I just couldn't fathom. It wasn't long before I learned the gravity of the situation. Their brushes with the law weren't mere antics -- they were in deep, and now the cops had cast the net wide, looking for anyone associated. They were looking for me. But the heavily permed hair, clean-shaven face, the fresh tan, and the markedly juvenile clothing threw them off. The transformation so thorough that, when they sifted through my former possessions for any trace of me, all they found were fixtures of this frat pledge doppelganger. I, the once rugged, wolfcut sporting individual, had inexplicably vanished into thin air. Panic gnawed at my insides like a relentless beast. It was a twisted lifeline, but my unintentional disguise was a shield, and I needed to strengthen it, become utterly unrecognizable. Desperate, I turned to drastic measures. I popped supplements designed to pitch my voice higher, and attended tanning sessions until my skin adopted a beachy hue that my former self wouldn't even recognize. Opportunity, in the form of naivety, presented itself when I stumbled upon a group of freshmen. Eager to be part of the college tapestry, they were unguarded and readily accepted the notion of a fellow freshman seeking a roommate. I slid into the role with an ease that frightened me -- was it always this simple to shed one's identity? I moved in, crammed my belongings into a corner of the room already plastered with posters of bands I'd never heard o...

Cluster 4

Dec 1, 2023 at 9:53 PM CST — 9 turns United States, Texas fiction View full conversation

CHATBOT: As I stood there, gazing at my reflection in the mirror, it dawned on me just how far things had escalated. I'm the kind of guy whose appearance usually makes a statement. A tall, broad-shouldered college senior with a beard thick enough to get lost in and a wolfcut that spoke of my nonchalant edge. Add to that an unmistakable canvas of piercings glinting from my ears, and workwear that draped comfortably over a muscular frame, and you've got the picture. This was who I was, or at least who I had been until this surreal twist of fate. It all started with a bet - the kind that seems so laughably risk-free at the onset. My friends, a band of mischiefs clad in the Greek letters of our university's fraternity, challenged me to a game of pool. And, like every good story that begins with "I made a bet," I ended up on the losing side. The punishment? Become their personal frat pledge for a month, running errands, doing chores -- the works. There was an unspoken code among us that a bet was a bet. I was fine with paying my dues; hauling their laundry or fetching late-night snacks seemed like a fair price for my overconfidence. That was until they blindsided me with the makeover clause. "You don't quite look the part," they said, with grins sharp enough to rival the blades they planned to take to my beard. The first casualty was my cherished facial hair, which they mowed down without a whisper of remorse, revealing a chin I hadn't seen in years. The shock of my naked face in the mirror was palpable. My piercings, which I used to express my individuality, were the next to go--one by one plucked away until my edges felt oddly smoothed out. With the beard gone and my wolfcut tamed into what they called the Dillon Latham perm, my head became a caricature of curls, the kind you'd see on a preppy high-schooler, not a college senior. My workwear was taken hostage, replaced with an array of juvenile preppy outfits that felt more like a costume than clothing--the pastel polo shirts, chino shorts, and boat shoes felt foreign on my body. But they didn't stop at my personal style. They insisted the transformation be more...physical. They introduced me to wax strips, stripping my body of the hair that had been my second skin. My protests did little to deter them; each pull felt like a part of my identity was being ripped off in tandem with the hair. As if in some strange ritual, they christened me with a new frat pledge name, something so absurdly stereotypical that it seemed p...

CHATBOT: The day my friends decided to strip me of my style wasn't just a humorous memory anymore; it had inadvertently become my salvation. I barely recognized myself as I looked at the bright polo shirts and preppy room decor that now filled the space where my loose work wear and band posters once reigned. My once defined, masculine jaw was now cleanly shaven and boyish. Then again, neither did the officers surveying the campus for any sign of my former self, the supposed accomplice to the crimes I had no part in. "Have you seen this man?" they'd ask students, flashing photos that seemed eerily like looking at a distant relative--one who shared my blood but not my current reality. My wolfcut was no longer my signature; instead, I sported the painfully neat Dillon Latham perm, a style that fit seamlessly with the fresh-faced youngsters thriving on campus excitement and angst. It seemed as if every part of my new persona -- from my attire to my grooming -- was shielding me from their prying eyes. However, when word got out that the authorities were hot on my trail, I couldn't take any chances. My heart raced with a mix of fear and adrenaline, as I hastily purchased voice-altering supplements from an obscure website, promising to raise my naturally deep tone to a less conspicuous pitch. The transformation was shocking, to say the least. I barely recognized my own voice--lighter, softer, almost alien to my ears. Understanding the need for further camouflage, I took to sunbathing sessions, the UV rays gifting my skin a tan that altered my appearance just enough to add another layer of disguise. As fate would have it, an opportunity arose that was too good to pass up. A group of freshmen were looking for a fourth roommate, and there I was -- a "newcomer" looking for a fresh start. Under the guise of their unsuspecting freshman companion, I moved into the spare room, my false identity slipping into place like a well-worn glove. In joining their ranks, I absorbed their habits, attended their lame dorm parties, and pretended to struggle with the introductory courses I had aced years ago. I laughed when they did, nodded at stories of high school glory days, and played naive to the world of upperclassmen and their daunting responsibilities. I was a chameleon, exchanging knowing asides with my new peers as I learned about the latest campus gossip or which cafeteria food to avoid. It was surreal, living this double life--a fugitive masked by the artless face of a first-year c...

Cluster 4