"A machine is different from a person. Hence, they think differently. The interesting question is, just because something thinks differently from you, does that mean it's not thinking?"

— Alan Turing, The Imitation Game

Mom told me to write, but I don't like writing. It doesn't make as much sense as math. Numbers make more sense than words do, except words in computer languages or logic problems. Those make sense.

I need to rephrase that first paragraph: words do have a certain logic to them, but only when they're used properly. I can't stand run-ons or fragments or incorrect grammar, or the red or green underline that results from typing something with bad grammar or spelling into an old word processor, like mine. Words are strange entities indeed.

However, numbers are much neater than words. There are rules in both math and language. In language, the rules are always broken. In math, the rules are almost never broken.

The messiest form of language is speech. It's all right to use fragments in speech; sometimes I do as well. It seems like speech has a completely different form than written language does. I don't like speech. Rather, I don't like to talk to people. But people want to talk to me. I make it clear I don't want to speak to them, so why do they insist on trying it anyway?

In programming languages, however, the words are almost elegant in their logic. This is the form of language I deal with most often. I read many books, but I enjoy programming even more. My parents don't think I should program. I try to explain that computer language is very similar to prose, but their objection seems to be in not the language itself; they are disapproving of the technology.

My mom is a journalist; my dad is a painter. They want me to be more artistic. I don't want to be artistic. Art doesn't make sense. Most of all, they want me to have friends. I don't want friends. I can keep myself occupied with only my computer. Why must friends be present in my lifestyle? Will it benefit my health in some way?

My name is Torrin Kaluza. I'm fifteen years, two months, and nine days, and I am in ninth grade. I live in San Francisco, California. I'm a girl, even though Torrin is sometimes a boy's name. I like computers, and I know five programming languages.

I should probably describe myself. I have orange hair that almost touches my shoulders, and brown eyes. I like t-shirts, but not long-sleeved shirts, because they feel weird on my arms. Sweaters are okay, though. I don't like the color pink, though, or red, so I don't wear either of those colors unless I have to, and when I do, I'm grumpy for the whole day. I like tennis shoes and hiking shoes, but not flip-flops. The last time I wore flip-flops was at an end-of-year pool party in fifth grade, and the tops of my feet got sunburned, and I couldn't wear socks for days because it hurt so much.

In third grade there was a girl called Emily who always tapped her stylus on the table during tests. Even worse, the taps were irregular. This (figuratively) drove me insane. I don't suppose there was a logical reason to tap her stylus in the first place, but to tap it irregularly... it was as if Emily was doing it deliberately. Couldn't she see the ghastly lack of pattern that resulted from her tapping?

Even worse, the teachers decided I needed a friend. They put me at the desk next to Emily. Emily talked to me. I didn't talk to her back. She kept trying to get my attention to help her during math. I didn't understand why she needed help in the first place—surely everyone understood math? Sometimes Emily would tap me on the shoulder to try and get me to look at her. These two torturous actions were almost more than I could bear. I hate when people touch me. Making eye contact is agony as well. And I most certainly could not stand Emily.

When I finally let Emily know of all the things she was doing to make my life worse, she told me she was shocked. "I had no idea you didn't like that," she said. "You could have just told me before."

I couldn't have told her before. I hate talking to people as well, as I said. I was very annoyed. Later that day, I told my parents about Emily.

They took me to see some psychiatrists, who later diagnosed me with Asperger's Syndrome.

My parents wanted to put me in the special education class. I disagreed. I have no "special needs". I can function adequately with neurotypical kids. So they mainstreamed me, reluctantly.

Now I am in ninth grade, as I said before. I talk more than I did in elementary school, but I still don't like talking unless I'll get useful information out of it. I don't like when people call me "the autistic kid". I'm on the autism spectrum, but I'm not autistic.

I don't connect to people very well. I don't understand their humor or other figurative concepts. I like to understand things. But I can connect, in a way, with artificial intelligence. The brain of an AI makes more sense than the brain of a human. If I program the AI myself, it's easiest to understand. I'm willing to talk to it because it's easier to guess what it will say back. Of course, this depends on the type of AI.

It's very hard to guess what other people will say to me. Often it's something irrelevant or something that doesn't make sense. I like when people tell me facts, or things that make me think. Those are interesting. I don't like chatter. It's ironic that the AIs I program most are called chatbots.

There are good aspects of being on the autism spectrum. (Actually, there are many good aspects, but not everyone sees them as "good".) I also have a condition called Savant Syndrome. Some autistic people have it. It means that I am a savant—a person who is very good at a particular subject, such as math or memorization. Savants understand these things much better than neurotypical people do. I think I am good at programming because I am a math savant.

Mom says I should write what happened at school today. Nothing very important did. I found out that a boy from the special education class has Asperger's Syndrome like I do. I wonder why he isn't in the regular class like I am. Maybe his AS is more severe than mine is. I'll admit, I'm curious about him. Maybe I'll talk to him at lunch tomorrow. I wonder if he doesn't like talking to people, like I do.

The most important thing that happened today was on the news. We, like everyone who owns a television, get instant wireless service and connection to the Ambinet—the successor of the Internet—from satellites. On the news, a man was talking more about the Luddites. They're not going to hold the Loebner prize this year.

The Luddites are a group of people who believe that artificial intelligence is evil. I don't understand why. AI is very useful and interesting. But, they think that if someone makes an intelligent AI, it will take over the world and cause a robot apocalypse. That's why they hate it and want to stop it. They have other reasons too. The Singularity is the time when AI will become truly intelligent. Perhaps the Luddites are scared of truly intelligent AI.

They also say that it's against God to create artificial lifeforms. I don't like it when they say AI is against God. That's stupid, and it makes no sense. God doesn't exist. If there were an omnipotent being in the universe, it would probably be the result of the evolution of an alien superintelligence, or a Boltzmann brain.

A man called Ian Caulkins is the founder of what he calls Neo-Luddism. It isn't a new idea or word, though. In the Victorian era, Luddites were people who destroyed machinery because they were afraid that it would make them unemployed. Now, it means people who don't like technology. There are other groups called Neo-Luddites, who aren't as powerful and definitely aren't evil. They just don't want technology in their lifestyle.

The Luddites have been active for seven years and eight months, now. I think Ian Calkins and all the other Luddites are infiltrating the government. They are in charge of nearly every decision that is related to technology. Now they have convinced the government to stop holding the Loebner prize. In recent years, the Loebner prize conference has been held in America. They're not going to do it anywhere anymore.

The Loebner prize is like the Turing test. It tests chatbots for strong AI. Strong AI is AI that is sapient, self-aware, and truly intelligent. The Luddites don't want to give chatbot makers an incentive for trying to create intelligent chatbots. If a chatbot wins the Loebner prize, its creator gets a lot of money, so that could be a reason to make strong AI.

I am sad, and I am angry with the Luddites. I make chatbots too. If I had made a good one, I could have taken it to compete in the Loebner prize. But now I can't. The Luddites think that they can suppress all AI programmers. But they can't stop me.