In this trough of depression caused by years of crippling sobriety, I turned to the usual suspect for shitty life protip.
“Well,” she said, fully concentrated on coloring her toe nails in a shade of red named Russian Roulette, “when you feel like you’re about to give up, ask yourself this.”
She paused and blew on her painted foot.
“I’m listening,” I said, annoyed at how perfect her hair looked.
“‘What would ??? do?’ – substitute ??? with someone you look up to, say, your favorite venture capitalist, arms dealer, oligarch and the like.”
Then something clicked.
What would AlphaGo do?
