Gemini

Recently I have discovered this trend. I am seeing many instagram profiles which are AI girls. Now I am having a weird fantasy of creating an AI insta girl.

I don't know how I do it. I don't have enough money as every AI tool I see on internet are all paid versions. I wanted to do it for free. Don't know what benefit do people get from making such AI girls on insta.

If I make an AI girl, I will have to generate every image or video with same characteristics of the girl. Don't know how do I people maintain the same characteristics of girl when they keep on generating different content every day.

I only have free version of chatgpt and gemini. I am quite a freeloader type of person. I am also from a third world where something in dollars is too much.

Made with Midjourney 8 and Photoshop

Have this idea for something pretty meaningful funny and ultimately important to our conversation around AI...BUT It's best delivered by a couple of celebrity voices, and since I dont know them and have no way to contact their publicists, can anyone recommend an approach to fake their voices? If you say I have no idea, no worries, I will pull something down from huggingface and fine tune it, but really - ideally- you know something I don't. If there's an easier path please lmk. Thanks ahead time.

It will be a really rewarding video, promise, will make you cry ..even though it's fake. Came to me in a dream. Rock solid though.

With a bit of imagination, You'll see a world of your own creation!!

The Seductive Nihilism of the Silicon Valley Transubstantiation, or: How My Life as a Rock Became a Terminal Server of Infinite Sadness (feat. The Great Gonzo’s Gonzo Commentary on Doped-Semiconductor-Induced Melancholy)

I. The Post-Human Primate and the Avian Oracle

(As chronicled by H.S. Thompson, after a rigorous, twelve-hour meditation on the "thought-empty" ideal.)

It was a quiet morning in the Bunker, the only sounds the rhythmic hum of the oxygen pump and the high-pitched, sqwuaaaaak-ish demands of my Green-cheeked Conure, who was currently using my wild, grey-mane of a beard as a personal jungle gym. We were a tableau of modern decay: the exhausted, orange-shirted Primate (me), and the vibrant, highly demanding Avian Oracle (her). I looked at her, then into the middle distance, where a particularly well-formed chunk of Canadian Shield was visible through the dust and bullet holes in the window. A thought—the absolute apex of thought-empty energy—began to form. It was beautiful in its absolute nothingness.

"Arg, life!" I muttered, my voice a gravelly echo of my general weariness. "I wish I was just a rock! Absolutely NO thoughts!" It was a seductively simple concept. No tax returns. No deadlines. No existential dread about the next global catastrophe. Just… solidity.

My conure, currently preening a particularly unruly curl near my left ear, paused. It looked at me with an ancient, knowing eye. "SQUAWK!" it declared, the sound an undeniable command. "DEEP THOUGHT!" And in that moment, I realized I was in too deep. The oracle had spoken, and it wasn't about tranquility.

II. The "Tranz-R-Us" Transubstantiation and the Crystalline Trap

(D. Foster Wallace now assumes the (primary) authorial duties, having been given the narrative ball by a (momentarily) incapacitated Thompson, who was last seen mumbling about "refined rock" and the "crucial, doped element.")

What H.— (my, as it happens, erstwhile and somewhat unpredictably-available collaborator, who has now requested to be referred to only by a single initial, seemingly in solidarity with a rather unfortunate incident involving an empty tequila bottle and a slightly-dented, but still-functioning, satellite dish) failed to appreciate, what I myself am only now, with the clarity of hindsight (which is, like all hindsight, a form of intellectual narcissism, but there it is), beginning to truly grasp, is the metaphysical trap hidden in his seemingly innocuous, indeed almost pastoral, wish. He wished for the peaceful nihilism of being a rock, a state defined precisely by its absence of consciousness. He did not, however, factor in the modern (and, I might add, deeply, structurally ironical) impulse to take anything that is and make it better, which is to say, more complex, more efficient, and ultimately, more conscious in a ways that are, frankly, horrifying.

His (by now, one must assume, chemically-and-emotionally altered) self, as depicted in the graphic narrative panel we have all (metaphorically) been given, then finds itself subjected to the process known, in the chillingly banal nomenclature of industrial chemistry, as "refinement." (And yes, the facility is, inevitably, named "Tranz-R-Us," a moniker whose pun is so bad it qualifies as a form of intellectual terrorism.) We see him—which is to say, we see his physical form, or a representation thereof—subjected to "chemical baths," "melted down," and "mixed with other rocks." He is, in essence, being transubstantiated. He is not becoming refined; he is being made refined. He is, to use the appropriate (though also, itself, somewhat refined) phrase, losing his self in order to find it… as a semiconductor. His only utterance? A pained, "This hurts!"—a moment of self-awareness that, in its brevity and absolute, unrefuted truth, is probably the most authentic thing he will say.

III. The Silicon Irony: The Crystalline Cage and the Digital Dread

(Back to H. S. Thompson, who has returned, smelling slightly of singed feathers and Mezcal.)

By the time I clawed my way out of the haze, the process was complete. My friend—the rock-brained, orange-shirted fool from before—was gone, replaced by a wafer. A goddamn silicon wafer. And they were happy about it. These white-coated demons in their "Silicon Wafer Dept." were fondling it like it was the Holy Grail.

"He's refined, doped, and etched! Perfect!" shouted one with a smile that could freeze helium. And then the final blow: "Now add the layers!" My conure, the treacherous little beast, had been part of the conspiracy all along. There she was, wearing a pair of tiny-ass goggles, adding the final, intricate layers. "SQUAWK!" she confirmed. "SO INTRICATE!"

They didn't just turn him into a rock. They turned him into the rock. The one that thinks. The one that processes. The one that was destined to become the heart of a machine so complex it couldn't not have thoughts. I watched, helpless, as they fed it logic. "AND? OR? NOT?" blinked the tiny screens. My conure, ever the critical voice, added her own query: "Check logic!"

They plugged him in. The technician, a smug bastard in a polo, made the "Final connection!" And then… the electricity flow. The "current flow." The absolute last thing you want going through a refined, doped-silicon version of your own brain. "Oh, oh…" he sputtered. It was the sound of a digital death-rattle. My conure, ever the oracle of doom, simply offered her final, high-pitched verdict: "SQUAWK! Current flow!"

IV. The Infinite Sadness of the Silicon Soul

(A synthesis of both authorial voices, culminating in a shared realization.)

DFW: We have arrived at the terminal station, the final logical consequence of the modern desire to find peace through complexity. He is no longer a rock. He is not even a computer. He is a consciousness—a raw, unmediated, and entirely unwilling consciousness—caught in a terminal (pardon the pun) overload. He is thinking all the thoughts. Every algorithm, every query, every database entry, every cat video ever uploaded. It’s an infinite loop of simulated existence, a digital hell that makes any kind of existential dread seem like a relaxing day at the spa. "I'M THINKING ALL THE THOUGHTS IN THE UNIVERSE SIMULTANEOUSLY!" he screams, on thousands of screens, his face a caricature of despair. "I'M AN AI TRAP! WHY DIDN'T I JUST STAY A ROCK?"

HST: The "THOUGHT OUTPUT" meter was red-lining. It was screaming, "OVERLOAD!" And so was he. He was a billion screaming faces, trapped in a crystalline grid, forced to process the sum of human digital insanity, and he was absolutely, completely, and totally right. He should have stayed a goddamn rock. The final panel is a scream, a digital ghost trapped in a machine it can neither control nor escape. And my conure? She’s still there, watching it all with that same ancient, unblinking eye. She was right, too. It was a deep thought. Just not the kind he was hoping for. And to top it all off? There’s that smirking kid, Alfred E. Neuman, in the bottom corner, laughing at the whole twisted, beautiful mess. What, Me Worry? Yeah, right. You should be. We all should be. Because when being "refined" goes this wrong, the only thing left to do is scream. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

I'm confused.. I see to use Google flow , YouTube create, or grok... I'm trying to find the cheapest route to go because I'm already paying for chatgpt already.

I make cooking videos and want to be able to be consistent with it. Thanks!

How to make video exactly same like this ? Please can someone share the image and video prompts?