Below is a simple "back-of-the-envelope" estimate that uses only a few public facts about GPT-3 and very generic rules of thumb for counting operations.

Step 1. Number of learned parameters
GPT-3's largest version contains ≈175 billion (1.75 × 10¹¹) trainable parameters.

Step 2. How much data was seen during training
OpenAI reports that the model was trained on about 300 billion tokens (3 × 10¹¹).

Step 3. How many floating-point operations does one parameter cost per token?
A practical rule of thumb for Transformer language models is
 Training FLOPs ≈ 6 × (# parameters) × (# training tokens)

Where does the factor 6 come from?

• Forward pass: every parameter is involved in one multiply-accumulate → 2 FLOPs
• Back-prop gradient computation: roughly another 2 FLOPs
• Parameter-update (optimizer) and miscellaneous overhead: ≈2 FLOPs
Total ≈6 FLOPs per parameter per token.

Step 4. Plug in the numbers
Total FLOPs = 6 × (1.75 × 10¹¹) × (3 × 10¹¹)
      = 6 × 5.25 × 10²²
      ≈ 3.15 × 10²³ FLOPs.

Step 5. Express the answer in more familiar units
3.15 × 10²³ ≈ 315 zettaFLOPs (1 ZFLOP = 10²¹ FLOPs).

Step 6. Sanity check with hardware-time intuition
An NVIDIA A100 delivers ≈ 312 teraFLOP/s (0.312 PFLOP/s) in mixed precision.
Wall-clock time on a single A100:
 3.15 × 10²³ / 3.12 × 10¹⁴ ≈ 1.0 × 10⁹ s ≈ 32 years.
Running on 1,000 A100s in parallel would take ≈12 days, which is the right ballpark for a large industrial training run.

Final estimate
Training GPT-3 (175 B parameters, 300 B tokens) requires on the order of 3 × 10²³ floating-point operations, i.e. roughly 300 zettaFLOPs.

• I told my suitcases we’re not going on vacation this year. Now I’m dealing with emotional baggage.
• Parallel lines have so much in common. It’s a shame they’ll never meet.
• Why do programmers prefer dark mode? Because light attracts bugs.
• I ordered a chicken and an egg online. I’ll let you know which comes first.
• I asked the librarian if the library had any books on paranoia. She whispered, “They’re right behind you.”

Unique jokes: 5

I tried to get my life together, so I bought a smartwatch. Nothing says “I’m taking control” like strapping a tiny judgmental coach to your wrist. It buzzes every hour like, “Time to stand!” I’m like, “I’m on a bus.” It’s like, “Stand emotionally.”

It tracks everything. Sleep, stress, calories, my self-esteem. The other day it congratulated me for a “workout.” I was like, “What did I do?” It said: “You aggressively looked for your keys.” Great. Next week I’ll get a badge for “overthinking at 3 a.m.”

Notifications are out of control. My phone dings like I’m on call for a hospital, but it’s just my group chat: twenty adults sending thumbs-up reactions to a photo of soup. The group chat has subplots. One person’s mad, one person’s on vacation, someone’s dog has opinions. I miss when messages were simple. Now a single “K” can end a friendship.

Streaming services are the same. I have subscriptions to five platforms and somehow there’s still nothing to watch. They keep asking, “Are you still watching?” That’s rude. Don’t check in on me like that. If you care, ask how I’m sleeping. Ask if I’ve seen the sun. Don’t be like, “Hey, pal, still in those same sweatpants?” Yes. We’re a team.

Passwords have gotten ridiculous. Every site wants “eight characters, a capital letter, a number, a symbol, your childhood nickname, and the last four digits of a secret you’ve never told anyone.” Then it’s like, “This password is too weak.” Too weak? It’s stronger than me. I’m using that password to log into my feelings.

And two-factor authentication is a haunted house. I’m sitting at my laptop, it says it texted a code. My phone says it emailed the code. My email says it sent a push notification. My push notification says, “We noticed a suspicious login.” Yeah, it’s me! I look like this.

My mom texts like she’s defusing a bomb. She’ll send one sentence spread across twelve messages. “Hi.” “It’s me.” “Mom.” “Are you busy?” “Don’t worry.” “Everything’s fine.” “Call me.” That is not fine energy. Then she FaceTimes, camera under her chin, ceiling fan spinning like I’m being interrogated.

I tried meditating because everyone says it helps. I downloaded an app that yells at me to relax. Nothing like a British guy at 7 a.m. saying, “Let the thoughts pass like clouds,” while my mind is a tornado hitting a trampoline park. The app sent me a streak reminder. “You missed yesterday.” Oh cool, I’m failing at sitting still.

Self-checkout has turned us into unpaid employees. The machine is like, “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” Yeah, it’s my dignity. I love when it needs approval. I’m standing there holding broccoli like I got carded for vegetables. A teenager with a magic key wanders over like, “You trying to steal lettuce?” No, but ask me again and I might.

Dating apps feel like job interviews where no one has benefits. Every profile is a list of demands. “Be adventurous, love dogs, climb mountains.” Can we meet at a coffee shop and just be honest? “My hobbies are sitting and not climbing.” And stop asking for “someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously.” You’re holding a fish in 80% of these photos. You are very serious about the fish.

Working from home gave us a new language. “You’re on mute.” “Can you see my screen?” “I think there’s a lag.” That’s not the internet—that’s my personality. I love when someone says, “Let’s take this offline,” and then schedules three more meetings to repeat the meeting we just had. My smartwatch is in the corner like, “Heart rate elevated.” Yeah, because I heard “circle back.”

Anyway, my watch says it’s time to stand. I’m going to consider that a full-body workout and reward myself with soup. I’ll send a photo to the group chat and we will never be free.