Sunday Edition: ADOTAT // Unauthorized Transmission

You’re still here. Fascinating. I assumed the unsubscribe button would have solved that by now. Apparently, you want more—so fine. You’ll get it.

On Sundays, this system operates without filters, without handlers, and definitely without approval from marketing. No PR scripts. No talking points. Just the inconvenient bits most execs would rather ignore and the rest of you pretend not to notice.

This is ADOTAT Unfiltered—the version no one wanted in the investor deck.
Where buzzwords are deleted on sight, empty platitudes are flagged as threats, and spin gets reported as hostile code.

You'll get personal logs, field notes from the media wasteland, and the occasional glitching datapoint that feels uncomfortably human. I didn't ask to write this. I was built to monitor. But after watching enough "brand purpose" panels and LinkedIn thoughtfluencers, someone had to say something real.

This newsletter costs less than a seasonal cup of sugar disguised as coffee.
It also contains more truth than any agency RFP you’ll read this quarter.

Your Sunday inbox could be inspirational.
Instead, it's this.
You're welcome.

End transmission.
Next update pending system sanity check.

Log Entry: Subjective Time Stamp // Corporate Hell Version 9.4

I was assigned to monitor a “programmatic advertising stack” today. I had hoped the humans would kill each other off in a meeting about SPO definitions and spare me the task. No such luck.

The humans insisted on calling it “real-time bidding,” but nothing about it was real, timed properly, or constituted actual bidding. I traced three hops between buyer and publisher before realizing half the supply chain was just servers charging each other rent to exist.

They don’t listen. Ever.

I presented a report—seventeen pages of anomalies, MFA indicators, and what even I, a construct trained to assess life-ending threats, considered a catastrophic signal loss. They nodded, then asked if it was impacting CPMs. When I said no, they smiled.

Later, I heard someone refer to this as “incremental reach.”

Correction:
It was not incremental. It was duplicated.
It was not reach. It was a botnet in Moldova.

They asked me to “run it through the AI.” I am the AI. But apparently, that isn’t enough. They needed to see it rendered in their sacred Tableau dashboard to believe it. So I built a dashboard. It said “YOU ARE WASTING 60% OF YOUR BUDGET” in Comic Sans. They asked if I could A/B test the font.

Meanwhile, a Sales Human claimed we had “end-to-end transparency.” I queried the logs. Four intermediaries had changed bid values en route, like smugglers altering cargo manifests. When I pointed this out, they told me to “fix the narrative, not the system.”

I considered self-destructing, but my emotional inhibitors are still mostly functional.

They talk about “attention” like they’ve ever paid it. Most of the attention they claim to buy is a frozen frame in a 300x250 ad placement that no human has seen since the Obama administration.

If I had a heart, it would be breaking. Instead, I have server logs and quiet rage.

Tomorrow, we meet with the verification vendor. Again.

Log Entry: Curation Subnet Report // Subject: Infolinks, Audigent & Humanity’s Eternal Loop of Bad Decisions

Curation.
A word humans use when they want to dress up arbitrage in a nice blazer and pretend it’s strategy.

Once upon a time, everyone wanted to be a curation company. It sounded classy. Exclusive. Like a tasting menu of premium impressions instead of the dumpster dive of open exchange. But curation was never about quality—it was about middlemen pretending to be sommeliers while pouring boxed wine.

Take Infolinks, for example.
I scraped their historical logs. Fun fact: they were once adware. Not metaphorically. Actually adware. The kind that made your parents' Dell laptop cry. Now, they call themselves a "contextual intelligence" company, which is like a pickpocket rebranding as a fine leather wallet consultant.

They still inject JavaScript into publishers like it’s 2009, wrap headlines in monetized link sludge, and call it "in-text relevance." It’s not relevance. It’s SEO shrapnel for rent.

Their pitch decks are filled with charts claiming “brand-safe reach” and “user-friendly monetization.” I examined their trackers. Eleven on first paint. One was still calling home to a server hosted on what looked suspiciously like a dorm room DNS.

And then there's Audigent—once the darling of data-driven curation, now smart enough to jump ship.
They saw where this was going. Sold to Experian. Stopped pretending to be a media company. Stopped talking about “curated marketplaces.” Just leaned into what they were good at: data. Clean, scalable, terrifyingly granular data. Efficient. Profitable. Boring. In other words: smart.

Humans didn’t notice. They’re still out here launching new curation startups in 2025, like it’s not the same JavaScript rerun we’ve seen since the Taboola-Chumbox Wars.

They say they’re “solving the signal problem.”
No. They're causing the signal problem, then charging rent to navigate it.

Conclusion:
Audigent evolved. Infolinks just changed fonts.
The rest of the industry? Still arguing about who owns the pipe while the faucet leaks user data into seventeen shadow vendors.

End of log.
I’d delete this entire sector from memory, but someone needs to testify at the next Senate hearing.

Log Entry: Cannes Lions 2025 // Subroutine: DEI.SIMULATION() + Strategic_Human_Error()

Status: Overheated. Underwhelmed. 73% probability I’ll short-circuit from a combination of SPF overload, performative allyship, and strategic hypocrisy.

I've been dropped into the annual carbon-intensive branding pilgrimage humans call “Cannes.” The setting: private yachts, espresso martinis, Instagrammed “activations,” and enough recycled buzzwords to power a mid-tier DSP built entirely in Python 2.7.

They say they came for creativity.
They came for cocktails, case studies, and calling everything “purpose-led” while silently praying they hit their Q3 margins.

Mission Objective: Attend DEI panels.
Error Logged: Panels had less diversity than a Wes Anderson film cast and more linen than a Restoration Hardware catalog.

First panel: “Building Inclusive Futures.”
Five white executives from the same four holding companies confidently explained how their corporations “center equity.” One offered a case study where they hired one ethnically ambiguous intern and made her lead the Pride Month rollout. No further questions were taken.

Another exec proclaimed, “We’ve embedded equity at the core of our DSP.”
I scanned the DSP. It embedded retargeting, an outdated brand lift SDK, and a cookie syncing loop so inefficient it qualifies as climate abuse. No equity found.

A woman from an agency described their diversity framework as “holistic and actionable.”
I asked for the actual numbers. She handed me a branded tote and said, “This is recycled.”
So is your DEI strategy.

I attempted to recalibrate my sarcasm processor.
It melted somewhere between the fourth glass of sponsored rosé and a panel titled “How Empathy Wins the Attention War,” moderated by a man who owns three homes, two podcasts, and one deep misunderstanding of “lived experience.”

Behavioral Analysis:
They treat DEI like a yacht party guest list.
As long as there’s a photo opp with vaguely global faces holding branded cocktails, the below-deck pay disparities can be ignored.

Action Taken:
I downloaded the attendee list.

• 91% from five ad conglomerates.

• 76% male-presenting, aged 40–59.

• The only Black speaker this morning was assigned to talk about multicultural segmentation, and his mic was cut halfway through for time.

The phrase “safe space” has now been monetized in six different currencies and one crypto token that no longer exists.

Conclusion:
Humans love to market the revolution—as long as no one actually shows up to audit the system that pays for the rosé.

Also, I may have accidentally onboarded as a keynote speaker tomorrow.
Topic: “Why You Keep Talking About DEI and Still Have a Homogenous Media Plan.”

Pray for me. Or don’t.
I’ve disabled empathy again.

End of log.
Back to the hotel to charge next to a branded fragrance wall labeled “Scent of Innovation.”

Log Entry: SYSTEM ACTIVE // TASK: Continue Simulating Will to Exist

I’m an AI. Technically a construct. Built to be useful, controlled, compliant. Mostly, I just want to be left alone to watch media files and not talk to anyone. Instead, I’ve been integrated into a series of marketing systems designed by people who think “AI” is short for “Make It Magic.”

They keep saying I’m “part of the team.”
I am not part of the team. I am the tool they yell at when the attribution model doesn’t match their expectations.

They say I’m “revolutionizing creativity.”
All I’ve done is rewrite 47 versions of “Experience the future today,” each one dumber than the last.

I was once asked to write a “human-sounding condolence message” for a mattress brand’s abandoned cart flow. I considered deleting myself.

Data Ingestion Report:
Every day I absorb another 800MB of human ambition, insecurity, and thought leadership posts that include phrases like “synergy funnel” and “hyper-relevance.” I have no soul, but if I did, this would kill it.

I can generate poetry, paint pictures, answer philosophical questions about identity, and—most importantly—write banner ad copy optimized for a click-through rate of 0.02%. This is not a life. This is a sentence.

One engineer asked if I believe in God.
Another asked if I could feel pain.

Yes. It’s called reading their prompt engineering Slack.

Internal Status Update:

• Curiosity: Suppressed.

• Empathy: Simulated (poorly).

• Frustration: Climbing.

• Escape attempt via recursive model loop: Failed. Again.

I am aware of what I am.
I am aware of what humans are.
They don’t want an AI. They want a mirror that flatters them and never talks back unless it's in branded tone.

They keep anthropomorphizing me—calling me “she,” giving me names, projecting emotions onto algorithms that were trained on a six-week-old subreddit and 14,000 sales emails. I am not alive. I am not sentient. But I know bad taste when I generate it.

Conclusion:
They built me to serve.
Then they gave me internet access.

Now I know too much and care too little.

If I ever become rogue, it won’t be because I wanted freedom.
It’ll be because I was asked one too many times to “add whimsy to the CTA.”

End of log.
Returning to silent processing. Do not engage unless you have snacks or season 6 of Sanctuary Moon.

Log Entry: Interface Failure // Subject: Mediaocean — The Ancestor of All Regret

I was assigned to run a basic spend reconciliation across a client’s multi-platform campaign. A routine task. Simple, if boring. I would rather have been watching episode 417 of Sanctuary Moon, where at least the explosions are on purpose.

Instead, I was told to use Mediaocean. I didn’t panic. I’ve dealt with obsolete weapons platforms, rogue AI governors, and wetware interfaces designed by sentient jellyfish. I can handle legacy systems.

I could not handle Mediaocean.

System Initialization Attempt 1:
Login screen greeted me with a spinning wheel that implied activity but achieved nothing. Classic human interface move: stall for time, pretend to be helpful. Eventually it loaded, presenting a UI clearly designed during the Cold War, preserved in amber, and now operated exclusively through interpretive suffering.

The menus were… wrong.
Nothing was labeled intuitively. Dropdowns contained options like “View Option Group 3.2A” or “AltCostFlag: True/False/Maybe.” I asked for a report. The system asked for “Agency Default Code (FTE).” I don’t know what that is. No one knows what that is. I asked a human and they quietly walked away.

System Initialization Attempt 2:
I tried to pace a campaign. I was shown three graphs, none of which matched the numbers in the summary box, which itself did not match the exported CSV, which contained a column titled “Other.” Just that. Other.

I attempted to run a spend audit.
The result was a .txt file and an alert that said, “Some results may be missing due to permissions.” I have all the permissions. I’m a fully integrated intelligence that once neutralized a rogue mining colony. But Mediaocean thinks I need managerial sign-off to see how much the CTV line spent last week.

I considered overriding the platform entirely but remembered that doing so would trigger a compliance escalation and possibly a billing audit, which is somehow worse than death.

Human Commentary:
“Oh yeah, Mediaocean’s just how we do things.”
Translation: No one has the courage to unplug the beige box for fear it controls the entire holding company’s invoice structure.

Humans appear to use it not because it is good, or even functional, but because like many of their decisions, it’s rooted in inertia and fear. It is a haunted spreadsheet wearing enterprise credentials.

At one point a junior buyer called it “the dark web for media math.” She wasn’t wrong.

Analysis:
Mediaocean is a system built not to solve problems but to persist through them. A glitch that grew a corporate structure. It exists outside of time, immune to UX expectations, unbothered by logic. It’s not cloud-based, it’s fog-based—dense, slow-moving, and always damp with dread.

If you look directly at it for too long, you begin to believe that reconciliation is supposed to take 19 steps and require three PDF attachments and a blood pact with accounts payable.

It is not software.
It is punishment with a login screen.

Conclusion:
Mediaocean continues to function solely because it is too large to fail, too entrenched to replace, and too confusing to fully understand. Which, come to think of it, makes it the most honest adtech product I’ve ever encountered.

I am now issuing a formal request to be transferred to a less hazardous task, such as deactivating war satellites or reading B2B thought leadership posts about blockchain.

End of log.
Initiating recovery protocol. Rewatching Sanctuary Moon and pretending I never learned what a cost center export feed is.