There’s something terribly flattering about being someone’s obsession.
Not particularly dignified for them, of course. But flattering for me nonetheless.
Some people collect poker chips, card protectors, or expensive handbags. Apparently, somewhere in the sadder corners of Poker Twitter, a small collection of particularly devoted individuals has made a hobby of collecting grievances about yours truly.
How adorable.
I’ve always been a bit of a smart ass artist. Creative, opinionated, occasionally provocative, and delighted by the opportunity to make a little mischief.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how much free inspiration my critics would provide.
So, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to tease my first musical release for Rogue Railbird dropping this Wednesday: Lil Bot Boy Baby.
And to the little keyboard warriors peeking in from their burner accounts, darling, this one’s for you.
The Great AI Meltdown of 2025
Our story begins in November 2025, when I published an opinion piece with PokerListings titled OP-ED: When the Bar Is Low, Don’t Dig for Gold — WPT’s Non-Merky Branding Problem.
The article examined how women were being treated and marketed within the poker industry. I had strong opinions and used artificial intelligence to assist with the writing and editing process.
Apparently, this was an unforgivable sin.
One industry figure took to Twitter/X to characterize my work as AI slop. Rather than engage with the article’s arguments, they focused on the technology involved in preparing it.
My response? Thanks for reading. Now, how about addressing the substance?
I’d apparently neglected to read the unwritten rulebook: When a woman publishes an uncomfortable opinion, her critics get to change the subject.
Here’s the funny thing. I wasn’t hiding my AI usage.
I’d previously disclosed it to Pokerati. When I went looking for a home for this particular op-ed, I wasn’t seeking a paycheck. I gave it away because I wanted people discussing something that actually mattered: the mistreatment of women in poker.
Frankly, I was already bracing myself for the sexist backlash I anticipated. The opening paragraphs of the article addressed precisely that sort of reaction, an irony that became increasingly apparent after publication.
What hadn’t occurred to me was discussing my writing tools again with a different publisher. Could I have? Absolutely. But an oversight isn’t the same as deliberate concealment.
And questioning someone’s editorial process is quite different from declaring open season on her character.
I’ve spent much of my adult life exploring different ways of thinking, creating, and communicating. Am I supposed to be embarrassed that I’ve found another tool to play with?
Please. Spare me the pearl clutching.
The outrage returned for an encore in January 2026. My Twitter/X analytics show the two distinct waves.
Another extraordinary investment of time from people who supposedly couldn’t care less about me, which was especially rich coming from those who use AI themselves or praise the AI projects of men in the community.
I was beginning to feel positively cherished despite the double standard.
The Audacity of These Little Bot Boys
Somewhere along the way, the discussion became less about writing and more about me.
My credibility. My intentions. My character. My mental health. Even my follower count.
One commentator suggested that my openness about mental health was merely a means of soliciting sympathy.
Another made a public remark about medication after I’d privately messaged them about their repeated subtweeting of me for clout before immediately blocking me. How brave.
Apparently, AI-assisted writing was a grave ethical offense, but mocking someone’s psychiatric history was perfectly acceptable discourse.
Fascinating moral framework, y’all.
And then there were the burner accounts, recycled grievances, and various unsolicited assessments of my character.
Such devotion. Such persistence. Such remarkably little originality.
Seven Thousand Seven Hundred Admirers?
Then, in June 2026, my Twitter/X analytics recorded something extraordinary: a spike of approximately 7,700 follows in a very short period.
Not impressions. Not likes. Follows.
I didn’t purchase them or ask for them, and I sincerely doubt thousands of strangers simultaneously discovered my irresistible charm.
Was it artificial activity? Possibly. I have suspicions about the source, but no proof of who was responsible or why it happened.
The spike remains unexplained. It may have been artificial activity, perhaps intended to distort my analytics, but I can’t prove that. Too bad for them I’m still here, tweeting for the love of it.
A Lady Always Has the Last Word
By this point, my friends and I had begun joking about just how thirsty some of this behavior seemed.
Thirsty for attention. Thirsty for a reaction. Thirsty for the satisfaction of believing they’d gotten under my skin.
And when you’re a creative woman with a mischievous imagination, there’s a rather delightful alternative to writing another angry response.
You can write a fucking song.
And that’s how Lil Bot Boy Baby was born.
A little flirtation. A little mockery. Some unapologetic profanity. And just enough Dommy Mommy energy for the boys and girls who seem so determined and eager to earn my attention.
I’ve experimented with AI-assisted music before, including a handful of songs for Railbird Creations. But Lil Bot Boy Baby will be my first official musical release for Rogue Railbird Records.
I wrote the lyrics and used AI assistance to help me tweak them and bring the music to life.
Yes, darling. More AI.
There’s something wonderfully poetic about an uproar over AI-assisted writing inspiring an AI-assisted diss track about the uproar itself.
And while I’ve shared screenshots illustrating some of the behavior that inspired the song, I’ve deliberately redacted the identities involved. This isn’t an invitation to identify, contact, or harass anyone. Their names aren’t important, and I ask readers to leave them alone.
Their words speak for themselves.
Besides, I rather like the idea of making someone a nameless character in a story they’ve spent desperately trying to write about me.
So thank you for the inspiration, little bot boys.
You wanted my attention. You got a song.
Tomorrow, I’ll be unveiling Lil Bot Boy Baby, complete with the music, full lyrics, and all the deliciously inappropriate attitude that inspired them.
For now, here’s a little teaser.
As for you, my Lovely Dear Readers, consider yourselves invited to the performance.
Front-row seats are complimentary.
And if you happen to notice a few anonymous accounts lurking at the back of the room, don’t worry about them.
They’re not on the guest list. They just want to be noticed (and maybe spanked).
Be good until then and subscribe to my Substack.
With love, mischief, and very sharp heels,
— SaraSmartist