You could not imagine it, but it happened- They did it again.
As usual, it started with giggles, a laptop left open, and Mum whispering prompts like “Schmutz with glitter tail in limited-edition cosplay armor.” Schmutz purred in delight, of course. She lives for this—fame, flamboyance, and full-action articulation. But I… I watched from the window perch. Eyes wide. Ears twitching. The eerie flicker of the ring light reflected off the screen.
First came Schmutz, rendered in plastic perfection: a mini replica of herself, complete with her crooked tail molded at a comically jaunty angle. Then Mum. Then Dad. Even “Bommel,” my emotionally charged toy-trap, wasn’t spared. They turned my tool of cathartic rebellion into a keychain. No one even asked me. It was not even in their mind that this could be an issue, to ask for consent!
In this house, all it takes is one missed mealtime or a single nap and—boom—you’ve been digitized, glossed, and hashtagged into collectibility. I’m convinced the toaster is next.
Everyone’s a Doll, and No One’s Asking Why
Have you ever watched your loved ones transform themselves into toys while your fur prickles with constitutional unease? No? Just me then.
They call it a trend—a harmless bit of AI-generated fun. Upload a picture. Describe your ideal aesthetic. Out comes a version of you in clamshell packaging, frozen in a curated identity. Schmutz now exists in eight digital variants—Space Empress, Queer Knight, and my personal favorite: “Influencer with Sword.” (Because nothing says vulnerability like high heels and medieval weaponry.)
But what they don’t discuss—not in the giggles or the “post it, post it!” choruses—is the quiet erasure that happens when play becomes packaging. Schmutz chose this. But did Dad? Did Bommel? Did I?
I asked myself: Who owns the story when we’re all action figures?
A Very Serious Data & Privacy Interlude
(Because somebody has to be the grown-up)
Let’s paws—excuse me, pause—for a moment of Real Talk™.
While the household indulges in glittery avatars, I, the only cat who still reads data policy PDFs, have some questions:
- Where are the images going?
In Schmutz’s case, you’re not just playing dress-up when you upload your face or tail into a generative AI model. You’re feeding a system that may store, replicate, and redistribute your likeness, even in versions you never imagined. - Do you have rights over your doll-self?
In Germany, we take Datenschutz seriously. Personality rights aren’t just for people; they’re for emotionally complex cats like me. Unless you’ve explicitly agreed to being a collectible, I’d argue that turning your likeness into a bobblehead violates your Katzenwürde (dignity of cats). - Performance, Forever?
Imagine being remembered for your “Cyberpunk Yoga Pose” edition, not for who you are. If everything becomes content, when do we get to stop performing?
Passive Resistance in the Age of Play
When they tried to design Franzi: Caretaker Edition™, I slipped behind the curtain. Flattened ears. Eyes like little portals to civil disobedience. Mum murmurs, “But she’s so elegant… maybe she’ll like it.” I didn’t meow. I stared. The kind of stare that compresses centuries of feline disdain into one quiet moment. They dropped the mouse. But before even generating, Schmutz uploaded a not-so-flattering image of me turning into the “velvet tank” edition. I mean…. The vet fat shaming was just unmasked as false, and the tank stuff rises again? This is how body shaming goes hand in hand if everyone turns themselves into beautiful barbies-
You’re welcome.
Still, they continue. Each night brings new variations of Schmutz: Schmutz in a kimono. Schmutz but make it cybernetic. Schmutz with an emotional support baguette. (That one almost made me laugh.)
But I remain unrendered. Not because I lack the aesthetic appeal. I have cheekbones sharper than your average influencer’s jawline and eyes that could launch a thousand existential crises. No—my absence is a quiet rebellion. A reminder that not being turned into a product is still a choice. That refusing the spotlight is not invisibility—it’s autonomy.
Final Reflection (or: The Anti-Packaging Manifesto)
They’ll call me dramatic. They’ll say I’m taking a harmless trend too seriously. But tell me this: If we keep turning ourselves into content, who will be left to witness us without the filter?
The leash comes out. We walk. We pose. We upload. We unbox. Is this play, or just a brightly colored form of surveillance?
From my perch above the chaos, I’ll keep watching. Quiet. Unpackaged. Unrendered. And when the world finally tires of turning itself into toys, I’ll be here—with my Bommel, my pinecone tail, and the knowledge that the best parts of us were never meant to be collectible.
But most important! Have you given permission to be turned into packaging… or did they assume your silence meant yes? 🐾
