Infinite scrolling removes the "stopping point" from the interface, changing not the functionality itself, but people's behavioral rhythm and self-control costs. It makes continuing to consume content the default option, thus treating attention as an extractable resource, which is a classic example of "design as governance."

The term "frictionless" is not value-neutral; it often disguises the platform's goals (time spent on the platform, engagement) as "better usability." The ethical question is: are the eliminated frictions actually the "brakes" that users need for reflection, disengagement, or setting privacy preferences?

So-called "pernicious ignorance" is not simply a lack of knowledge, but rather a selective blindness reinforced by social reward structures. For example, when posting photos of volunteer trips abroad, we are more inclined to consider the attention, fundraising, and personal image enhancement they bring, while ignoring the consent rights of those being photographed, the risks of long-term stigmatization, and the harm caused by power imbalances. This makes actions that "appear beneficial" seem morally easier and more readily justifiable.

This statement highlights a frequently overlooked tension: the "accuracy" of moral judgments often comes at the cost of complexity. The mechanisms of social media (instant feedback, likes/shares) encourage us to pursue "quick and certain" conclusions, leading to a natural tendency to make decisions based on simplified data. The result is not simply miscalculation, but the systematic exclusion of inconvenient consequences.

This passage uses three levels to remind us that "robots" themselves do not equate to intelligence or objectivity. Tay's "contamination" illustrates that machine learning-based conversational robots absorb biases from the platform as "language norms"—when training data comes from an environment full of provocation and racism, the system becomes an amplifier of prejudice; the problem is not just a technical failure, but a governance failure of treating a "public platform" as a safe training ground. Next, the "registered vs. unregistered bots" reveal the cat-and-mouse game of platform regulation and countermeasures: API restrictions act as rules and guardrails, while simulated clicks bypassing APIs disguise automation as "human," making it harder for platforms to track, demonstrating that visibility and controllability are themselves forms of power. Finally, the "fake bots" point to another form of deception: humans pretending to be AI to gain traffic, a sense of mystery, or immunity from responsibility—this blurs the line of "authenticity" and reminds us that in the attention economy, technological identity can also be used for performance and marketing.

This passage shifts the discussion of "bots" from neutral tools back into the context of power and manipulation: they can not only automate the dissemination of information but also automate the creation of "false impressions of public opinion" (follower boosting, astroturfing) and targeted harassment (the coordinated attack on Rian Johnson). More notably, the research mentions that a large number of negative tweets were "politically motivated or non-human," meaning that the anger, ridicule, and boycotts we see online may not be a natural aggregation of "genuine public opinion," but rather an emotional landscape that is organized, amplified, and fabricated. Finally, the "Gender Pay Gap Bot" provides a counterexample: this "adversarial" automation can be used for public accountability—by forcibly juxtaposing corporate holiday statements with structural data (wage gaps), it forces people to see the reality obscured by public relations language. The key is not whether "bots are good or bad," but who uses them and whose perceptions and interests they are used to shape.

This statement sounds very "radical," as if it could free one from stress, but I think it can easily become a form of escapism: when we say "it doesn't matter," we are often avoiding things we actually care about. Even if there are no absolutely uniform "right answers" in the world, we still make choices every day based on relationships, consequences, and responsibilities—these choices themselves demonstrate that "things do matter to us." Therefore, nihilism can be used to remind me not to be bound by external standards, but it cannot be used as an excuse to "avoid responsibility."

This statement made me think: many of our feelings of "who I am" don't just appear out of thin air, but are shaped within relationships—for example, when we are respected and trusted, we are more likely to become confident and kind; when we are ignored or hurt, we may become more withdrawn. It's not about "you must please everyone," but rather a reminder to consider one more thing when making decisions: will my actions help others feel more like "a complete person"? If it can lead to greater dignity and recognition for both parties, then it's often a better choice.