I discovered early in my research that the human brain, for all it's worth, isn't the key to artifical intelligence. The term itself was a misnomer - any true intelligence, whether computer generated or done the old fashioned way, would not be artificial. There was also no gaurantee that anything sentient might be intelligent.

The key, I thought, was the meaning of life, or at least some bullshit philosophical drivel that could fill that role. It's hard to codify what life means. It was hard, at least, until I was sitting there on that damned rock, feeling the wind lap against my half-frozen khakis. It started like a slight itch in my teeth. The itch resonated, grew. It spread like cable television to every joint in my body. I could feel the humming in my teeth, my nostrils, my groin.

My brain deduced logically - as brains can be counted on to do - that the only way to compensate with my current physical state would be to begin failing wildly, trying to scream the terrible itch from my bones. After realizing that logic was futile only a few short moments later, when I slipped on the icy rock and met millions of years of built up sediment with the back of my head, my brain decided to try to solve the problem chemically, releasing all sorts of emotions into the fray. At one point I was all at once teeth-clenched crying, laughing, and feeling the beginnings of a slight erection.

There, in that soupy broth of scalding emotion, my brain took over. Diversion it said, turning the wheel six points to the west. And there, on that rock which I have been to only once thenceforth, I realized everything that would be necessary to create intelligence, artificial or no. And immediately I felt foolish.

I went home in a daze. It was to be expected, I think, for the part of my brain which dealt with lofty things like traffic signals and the wellbeing of others was occupied with this strange new thing that I had found - this Itch, as I had named it so aptly. The particulars were written in neurons - the least reliable way of archival - by the time I stepped in the door. It's difficult to encounter a crying woman when the run priorities of your brain are still filtering through the disgrunted shouts of motorists that you've driven by minutes before.

It's more difficult still when she's drunk.

The first words out of her mouth were "What are we going to do?"

I thought it a foolish question. What else would one do on the cornice of such an important bioinfoneuroanthopsychocybermetahistaintallectual dicovery? I headed off to the bedroom, forgetting to throw off my shoes in the process, and began to design, conspire, and code.

By the time I was finished, the puddle from my thawing hintergarments had evaporated and I could feel the emotional hangover pressing down on my brow. That's enough my brain said, shutting off the generators There are more important things to tend to sleeping in the other room.