At a certain level all data is a pair (some name, blob of bytes). You can concatenate sequences of those pairs into a tar archive and call that a database. To access “the last object” you’d have to seek over the “first” objects. So you can build another set of (some name, blob of bytes) that serves as an index into the first set. You’ll first have to do at least one full pass over that first set, and you’ll need to make space on the books to account for twice as many sets, AND you’ll still have to do some seeking over the “first objects” in the indexing collection, but it all keeps recall times very short!

We taught the infant AI to say Hitler as a joke then we got bored so now the only way it knows how to get our attention is by heiling in the school hallways while we get drunk in the comment section blaming capitalists and reddit for our absent parenting.

“some ideal clean pristine table” sounds like the kind of sass I’d expect from a teenager about to convince me that it’s somebody else’s job to clean their room and that his database is something that Doesn’t Need Love and is Happy, Actually to be treated like a storage dump pumped full and forgotten until the boys arrive and it’s time to mock the signs of neglect in front of them

or

identify imperative with the masculine and declarative with the feminine and cultivate balance

Seeing all these memes Sovcitdartha, the Brahmin’s son, turns inward for a bit then decides to lean in on the whole thing to prove he’s Not A Fool, that there really is something wrong about this arrangement even if he can’t quite explicate it yet. So he sets out on his journey and what he finds in the community college basement is a single tower running Win98 hosting Tim’s Registration Service. And in all the IT contracts of all the states and territories are waterfalls of documentation detailing how their own Departments of Transportation simply MUST interact with any registry, which boils down to “do what Tim says” with no mention of how to delete an entry, and no clear opinion on the matter formed in the coke fueled fire that forged the whole thing. So his odyssey leads him to the Ancient Admins who’d agree to such an augury, to a cottage in the woods. The grey beards knotted at the center of the room form the spokes of a wheel turning in time to a flute and fiddle that make record scratching noises as he enters. He explains what he’s seen and decries how incomplete it all still seems that the axioms of the world are set by consent and not by structure. The trees look on doe eyed with tight lipped understanding as they petrify. He turns to look away and through the window sees the river drained dry, frozen into three clouds running Amazon Car Registry. He closes his eyes and through the (why (why why)) echoing about hears the din of the village Bell-ders chanting to roll for initiative.