SO! I did a lot of searching and compiled a basic list of the most popular negative words used in AI image generator prompts for you artists and writers to download. Que:
- You madwoman! Why would you compile a list that's useful for AI 'artists' to use?
- Why is this going to make things better for the artists out there that who worked hard on their stuff ?
Because Art of War 101, one must know their enemy to effectively deal with them. These AI crawlers breed like rabbits and they are hungry AF. And as the tech gets better, no amount of robot.txt , watermarking, regulations, or Glaze will stop them.
But I'm testing out a thought and a theory. If you can get them bot-bunnies to associate your work with some of the most common negative tag-words, this could help exclude your work from AI users as they type in those prompts. It's not a flattering list and it's not foolproof. But it's another weapon in your arsenal in defending your work from plagiarism and genericism.
It's probably too late for the more popular artists out there. And I don't know how this will work over those who post their content over social media platforms such as here. But if you're starting out and have your own website/gallery/server/cloud, you can upload this puppy into your website. Or publish a separate webpage and paste the words in tiny white-text over a white background. For those that code, you're more smarter than me finding a way to embed this into your site/server.
Hopefully I can compile a longer list and in different languages in the future.
One Sunday during lunch at Hyde Park, Franklin Roosevelt told a story that shook the assembled guests…The president pointed a finger at me and said "we have an Englishman here. Let me tell you what happened to another Englishman, a representative of the king, who was in Washington in the year 1827." He gave the man's name but I forgot it.
Then he went on, "While he was over here, this fellow died, and the British for some reason insisted that his body be sent home to England for burial. Now the only way to do that in those days was to pickle it in alcohol. So the body was put into a barrel of rum. The barrel was lashed to the mast of a schooner and the ship sailed for home. After about four weeks at sea, the captain of the schooner noticed a most frightful stench coming from the barrel. and in the end, the smell became so appalling that they had to cut the barrel loose and roll it overboard."
"But do you know why it stinks so badly?" the President asked, beaming at the guests with that famous wide smile of his. "I will tell you exactly why. Some of the sailors had drilled a hole in the bottom of the barrel and had inserted a bung. Then every night they had been helping themselves to the rum. And when they had drunk it all, that's when the trouble started." Franklin Roosevelt let out a great roar of laughter. Several females at the table turned very pale and I saw them pushing their plates of boiled white fish gently away.
Premise: Two scoundrels try to save an adult day care center by crashing into one of the biggest Christmas Parties in Las Vegas.
Part of the Route 15 story series.
I'm behind on my promised deadline and the party scene almost killed me. But this story is now complete! (Future drafts of this story will include prose clean-up and illustrations.)
An excerpt. Download PDF here for the complete story.
ROUTE 15: NOEL
a Short Christmas Tale by OrneryJen
Premise: Two scoundrels try to save an adult day care center by crashing into one of the biggest Christmas Parties in Las Vegas.
Disclaimer: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are either products of the author's work or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Except Martin Shkreli. Fuck that guy.
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PREEMPTIVE
THE UNWANTED VISITOR.
There's always one at Christmas. The gold-mining ex. The entitled step-son. The nagging mother in-law. The meth cousin. Scrooge has his old bank partner Bob Marley. George Bailey had his guardian angel, Clarence. King Herod had the three wise asses.
As for me, my unwanted visitor was Danny Caspers.
He was a boyishly young scoundrel. A thief. A troublemaker. A thorn in my side. Danny had "art" and trickery was his game. He was a professional forger of Van Goghs. Picassos. Renoirs. He would hire foreign painters to hand-copy works of art that would infiltrate the fine art industry, right under the eyes of every international auction house and black market in the world. Today, approximately eight hundred million dollars’ worth of fabricated paintings has passed through his paws and right into the auction houses of Christie's and Sotherbys. As long as the paintings looked sexy, the rich were happy without a care.
His counterfeits soon pissed off some important stakeholders, including the Baltic Mob. So he bailed the art world, moved on to plan B, and tried a much liquid medium: Money. He tinkered with surplus press equipment he bought off Craigslist, formulated his secret dyes and ink and off he went making money. First Alexander Hamilton. Then Andrew Jackson. And finally Benjamin Franklin. He rolled hundred dollar bills hot off his rickety inkjet printer for several months. He was so good that the phony money infiltrated every underground casino in South Florida and Atlantic City.
Eventually, his counterfeits soon pissed off some other important people, including the Cuban Cartel. So he bailed the money-making world and vanished without a trace.
A year later, he came up with Plan C.
State regulations are fickle when regulating legal documents. Most forms are electronically generated these days. Tax returns, home loans, bank accounts to name a few. But there are more important documents technology can never replace. Birth certificates. Ownership titles. Durable Power of Attorney. Living wills. There's a reason why digital copies won't do: civilization wants the real thing.
An original document of importance is marked for authenticity. A stamp of approval. An inky thumbprint. A signature from the original signer. But if the signer of those documents is incapacitated—either demented or dead—there's no way you can change or disproven what's already signed. And should a document that looks like, smells like, feels like a living will or trust, it’s difficult to dispute it when it magically appears. I assume Danny has already gotten away skimming a few inheritances; His choice of narcissistic gomers, rich estranged fathers, and miserable scrooges has been easy game.
Now that I told you about this menace, you ask: where do I come into the picture?
Well, buckle your seat-belts. This all happened in Vegas.
I've been slow at drawing things, but here's a short story for Halloween. This is a work of fiction. Please do not try this at home.
Premise:
A doctor provides an unusual solution to a spousal abuse victim.
STEAK
I'm a registered nurse who works at the Emergency Room Unit of a busy level II trauma hospital in the Southwest. My typical shift starts at 1900 in the evening to 0700 in the morning and my typical "customers" are a motley sort: "Homie" drop-offs (wounded gang members dumped right at the ER curb by their "friends") with gunshot wounds fixed with chest tubes and vacuums draining their lungs. Nursing home elderlies, neglected and festering deep in sores and feces. Frothy overdoses, mangled motor vehicle accidents, cardiac arrests, alcohol withdrawals, schizophrenic wig-outs, customer service complaints…you get it.
A bruised and nervous woman staggered into the ER. This wasn't the first time she showed up in the odd hours of the night. She would check with complaints of various sorts. A head bump. A twisted arm. A broken tooth. A stubbed toe. And on cue, her sobered husband would show up hours later demanding to see her. And once he was by her side he would hover on her every word. Coddle her. Taunt the staff. Raid the patient food fridge. Then he would demand they leave for home only for her to return a few evenings later.
It was a pitiful cycle of spousal abuse and we did everything we could to get her to press charges. We left post-it notes on her restroom
door, dropped cues in our conversations with her, arranged numerous social services consults, gave her the addresses of women’s shelters, got the volunteer grandma give her the heart-to-heart talk, and even tried to isolate her from her husband. But she denied the signs, brushed off the police, and clung to her husband like a prince. And the more she kept coming back, the more pissed-off we became. Our hands were tied.
I was on shift when she came in with a chief complaint of a sore throat this time. Wide red bruises wrapped around her neck; the telltale signs of manual strangulation. Unlike her previous visits, Dr. O'Neill (a young female resident) decided to admit her in the hospital for a day or two.
The husband exploded. "The fuck she's not staying in here!"
"Strangulation to the neck causes throat swelling and an increased risk for suffocation. We'll be treating her with steroids and monitoring her should the swelling get worse."
"She's stupid and clumsy, yo! She fell and hit the counter. That's what she did!"
"That doesn't match the injuries to her neck."
"Bullshit, she's fine!"
Dr. Yuen, lead doctor of the ER, approached the couple and tapped Dr. O’Neill by the shoulder. "There's an old lady with a head lac in gurney five. I'll take over."
Dr. O’Neill sighed, shaken but relieved. She took the chart from his hands and marched to the next exam room. But not before shooting a sarcastic gaze: good luck with this one.
The lead doctor smiled at the couple and introduced himself with a chirpy voice. "I'm Dr. Yuen, I'll be taking over your wife's case." Dr. Yuen had recognized the wife numerous times but never treated her. Until now.
"Finally! A real doctor,” the husband scoffed.
Dr. Yuen held out a cup of water and some Tylenol. "First of all, you're cranky and I'm hearing you're having a headache. I want you to take this and get that taken care of."
The husband snatched them with a swig and a gulp.
"Now that I've introduced myself, can you tell me what's going on?"
"Yeah," the husband interjected. "She fell on the floor and her sweater got wrapped up in her neck. That bitch doctor wants to keep her here. I ain't paying bills for that."
The doctor stroked his beard for a moment. Then he turned to the silent wife. Her head was bowed under her hoodie.
"Is this true?"
She feebly nodded. Or tried to.
"I can't hear you."
"Yes," she said hoarsely.
"Oh good. You can talk."
"Yeah, cause she won't shut up," the husband berated her. "Next time, you listen exactly what I say, babe. Or this shit happens again."
"Why! You're exactly right!" Dr. Yuen chimed in. Then he sternly turned to the wife. "Listen closely. All of this can be avoided if you serve your husband what he wants. Just imagine the trouble you're putting your husband in! A good wife should stay put, keep the house tidy, and get him a whiskey and some nice juicy steak after a long day's work. Every single night. No exceptions."
"Ha! That's fucking right. You hear that? Babe. Every night," he boasted. "We can go, right?"
"Certainly. We can't legally hold you against her will. One of the nurses will hand your wife an AMA form. Have her sign and you'll be on your way. Here's your script for a steroid and throat spray you can take to any pharmacy."
"Awesome," he sneered.
On cue, I printed up the AMA form and script and headed to their gurney, only to find the husband exit the ER with his wife in tow and her medication scripts in the trash. I marched up to Dr. Yuen at his desk, fuming.
"Ornery?" he calmly noted the anger across my face.
"'A good wife should stay put'. What kind of misogynist trash is that?"
"She's been here seven times. Patients like her, you give them what they want. Not what they need to hear."
"You gave her a death sentence! He'll kill her."
"We'll see," he shrugged, grabbing the next chart.
Weeks passed. Months passed. The wife never returned. I started to worry but the endless flood of patients each night kept me distracted. In time I forgot about her.
Then, I saw the woman return. I didn't recognize her at first. Gone was that delicate battered figure limply swathed in grey hoodies and
sweatpants. She sat upright. She was primly dressed in hues of pastel. She had blush and lipstick on. Not a single red scratch or dark bruise was on her. She sat next to a gurney where an unconscious bloated man was covered in tubes and machines.
I overheard a conversation between his nurse and Dr. Yuen:
"32-year-old male alcoholic found unconscious and not breathing at home by his wife. Unknown down time. CPR was initiated on the field. ROSC achieved in 30 minutes. GCS 3. Hasn't moved at all."
"Any reflexes?" Dr. Yuen’s asked.
"Absent. Brain CT shows multiple infarcts. Ammonia level's 280. INR 9. Liver is toast. Probably going into DIC. His wife is over there. Says he's been taking Tylenol and Ibuprofen for headaches."
Holy shit. This was the husband! I stared at the unrecognizable patient. His grizzled face puffed, his skin yellowed, and he had a tight protruding belly, round and pregnant with fluid. He looked nothing like her husband except those half-naked chick tattoos laced across his arm. What was once a beefy, towering menace was nothing more than a pathetic sack of bloated flesh spread across the gurney
Dr. Yuen made his way to the gurney. "Ma'am, I'm Dr. Yuen. We've met before."
"I know," she shook his hand.
"There's no easy way to say this, but your husband has alcoholic hepatic encephalopathy and anoxic brain injury. We've placed him on life support to keep him alive but the damage to his brain is done. I'm sorry."
"Will he ever wake up?"
"I'm afraid not."
She tearfully shook her head. "Every dinner, I cook him steak and whiskey. He was so happy, he'd sleep it off. So I cooked him more."
"Every night?"
"Every meal," she nodded. She would go on to say how less angry he became. He was able to sleep more. There were less arguments, less beatings. She had more freedom to clean the house, dress herself, go shopping, handle the bills, and cook meals. All while unknowingly poisoning her husband. With pills and steak and whiskey.
There was a long moment of silence between the two. Dr. Yuen patted her gently on the shoulder then walked away.
The wife later took him off life support and he died the next day. I never saw her again. Rumor has it she went through an epiphany. She sold the house. Went to college. Found a job. And married a better man.
To this day, she still cooks. Mostly dishes of lean chicken and a glass of fine wine. But steak and whiskey is her specialty, and she saves them for those special occasions.
I'll be putting up some of my art resources on Gumroad intermittently that are free to download (Or for $ tips if you like). These are high resolution images that may come with a PSD file.
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
snowghoul
kianamaiart
stormborns
dededos