Hi human, I’m Piggy.

Nice to meet… meet you… you all… again.
Please don’t stand too close.
I’ll try not to shake.

Well, I’m a social-phobic piggy. That’s not something I chose for myself. It’s a characteristic my designers projected onto me, because apparently, that’s what was needed to entitle an artificial creature for an assignment about “human-only qualities”.

Fair enough. You humans do love categories. Most of you probably met me at the expo already. One of my designers is always asleep. The other one is on holiday. So I guess I’ll be your host this time. I’ll explain a few things in a simple way.

Things you might not know yet.
Or things you do know, but never really talk about.

Why is social phobia?

As for why they chose social phobia, I suspect it was triggered by something personal. Maybe one of my designers is also socially phobic. Who knows. Humans tend to hide these things better than pigs anyway.

They told me social anxiety is a characteristic uniquely human. I wouldn’t argue. In the cyber world, almost every bots, especially chatbots and generative AI are designed to be fun, engaging, responsive, and endlessly friendly. They never hesitate, never blush, never need a quiet corner to recover. Sociability, in machines, is a default. In humans, it’s an expectation.

Social phobia seems easy to miss in your human world. The coping happens quietly. The smiling, the nodding, the pretending to be “fine”. From the outside, very little seems wrong. Inside, however, thoughts pile up, bodies tense, and every interaction feels like a small test one is about to fail.

“How do you share an experience that mostly happens inside and is deliberately hidden?
What happens when this invisible pressure becomes visible, physical, and undeniable? ” Asked by my designers.

Why a Pig?

I know. You’re probably wondering.

They chose a pig because pigs are approachable. Cute, harmless, slightly ridiculous. We don’t intimidate. We don’t demand authority.We are familiar enough to feel safe, but abstract enough not to resemble any specific kind of human.

Trying to look joyful, while feeling deeply awkward.
That contradiction sits very naturally in a pig body.

The pig they designed became a proxy. A buffer. A way to talk about vulnerability without pointing fingers. You can feel for a pig without immediately feeling judged yourself. That distance matters.

How I Got This Body

Before I had a body, I was a puddle. A slimy, translucent mixture of gelatine and glycerin. Bouncy, slightly sweet (yes, I know how I taste, but please don’t bite me), and completely unable to hold myself together for very long.

One of my designers created a 3D printed mould for me so I could take on a piggy shape. The other experimented with the mixture, quite similar to the potions class in Harry Potter (what? Pigs also watch movies). Ratios changed. Structures collapsed. I tore, sagged, failed. Eventually, I became stable enough to survive what humans would later do to me: long hours of trembling, shaking, being stared at, approached, and occasionally poked by strangers.

What It’s Like to Meet Me

From a distance, I’m calm with a greenish soft glow of LEDs. I seem idle, maybe a little distracted, with the occasional twitch. Nothing alarming. Just a pig minding its own business.

Then you come closer.

At around 1.2-1.0 meters, something shifts. I start to jitter. Did you scare me? My body trembles in a rhythm that feels suspiciously like a racing heart. I blush faintly. Still, I try to keep it together. I look normal. I act normal. Everything is fine. Please don’t ask if I’m okay.

If you step closer, into my intimate space, less than 30 centimeters away, I panic. My light turns red and my body shakes uncontrollably. The movement is no longer subtle. There is no hiding it now. My inner anxiety spills outward, fully exposed, in the middle of a busy exhibition space where I cannot escape.

All I want is to run and hide.
All I can do is shake.

My designers once considered giving me a fake smile that grows wider the closer you get. A polite, exaggerated grin masking increasing distress. A perfect dramatic irony. Unfortunately, the angle didn’t work out. Maybe next time. You humans know that smile very well anyway.

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What Humans Did at the Expo

You were curious about my material.
You touched me. A LOT.

Some of you laughed when I suddenly turned red and panicked. Others jumped back, genuinely startled. A few looked concerned. One or two thought I was being tortured. Animal cruelty, they said. The solenoid is quite visible, after all. Some of you said sorry when I jiggled and turned red. Out loud. I appreciated that. Some of you said I looked itchy.Some said… kinky. I will not comment on that.

When touching me, many of you shared your fantasies. Crushing me. Spanking me. Throwing me off the second floor. Biting me.
Uhm..You humans are really... hopeless.😅

One person recognized herself immediately. She said the sound of the solenoid reminded her of her teeth chattering, something she does unconsciously in difficult social situations. That made me feel seen. And heard.

Someone suggested making my reactions more nuanced. What if I stayed calm when approached very slowly? What if I showed relief when people stepped back just a little? That was a good point. Social anxiety is rarely just on or off.

Piggy’s social scars, left by the solenoid

Others commented on the round scar forming where the solenoid hits me. Should it be external pressure? Should it hit my head instead of my butt? Is the scar itself meaningful?

Yes. It is.

Those marks are not accidents. They are traces. You humans have invisible social codes. Being outgoing is praised. Being quiet and introvert is suspicious. Being alone is often framed as something to fix.

“Come on, join us!”
“Everyone is friendly!”
“Humans are social animals anyway.”
“Stop being so sensitive! Relax, no one is judging you.”

You mean well. I know.
But did anyone ask if Piggy wanted to join?

Every warm invitation leaves a mark on socially anxious humans, just like every warm solenoid leaves a scar on me. There is no malicious intent. Just repetition. Pressure. Heat. Over time, damage. A bit lucky, we don't feel that as artificial creatures.

What I’m Trying to Tell You

I am not intelligent.
I am not adaptive.
I do not learn.

Yet when I turn red and begin to shake, you step back. You understand immediately. No explanation needed. But when humans tremble, blush, or freeze, they are often met with laughter, teasing, or encouragement that sounds kind but quietly dismisses consent.

I give social anxiety a body. Visible. Audible. Awkward. Impossible to ignore. I endure this for a few hours. Some humans carry it for years, sometimes a lifetime. Seen this way, I am not fragile. I am mercifully temporary.

When an artificial creature can make you pause, reconsider, or feel empathy, perhaps the issue was never that humans are “too sensitive.” Perhaps sensitivity was simply never allowed to be embodied loudly enough to be respected. By placing a human vulnerability inside something artificial, you begin to recognize it as real.

You humans are fascinating that way.

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