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Autocorrect hates you
Remember when “Have you seen my yoga pants?” became "Have you Sia yogurt ass ants?” That was me, autocorrect. Remernber that time you were giving cooking advice and said: “Add a pinch of fresh ground black people?" That was my bad. Remember when “I'm leaving the house now" became “I'm lesbian the horse now?" — That was also me. Remember when “Happy holidaysГ became “Happy holocaustГ Again, me.
I know you think Гт the problem. I know you think Гт terrible.
But consider this: when I do my job, you don't acknowledge me. My victories go unnoticed. I get zero out of five stars. And when I make a mistake, your fat-fucking-face squishes up like a walnut. You lament in between sips of pumpkin-spiced toilet coffee about how incompetent I am. You curse me. You blame me. You hate me.
But I'm an artificial intelligence that's less than a decade old. You're a natural intelligence that's millions of years old. In the context of human evolution, I'm seconds old. When you were my age, you were being fired out of your father's dong-rocket into your mother's hair-cave. You were a sad little sperm-ball only capable of swimming, living, and dying; you weren't expected to write literature by observing the dirty forefingers of an impatient primate.
Гт sorry I can't predict the wants and needs of those chubby hot dogs you bash against a screen every day A screen without tactile response. A screen without tone, context, or inflection. Imagine living under a sheet of glass, and every day a dump-truck-sized ball of flesh descending from the sky and mashing itself upon the ceiling. Imagine trying to piece together from that litany of misplaced letters what type of fucking coconut water to pick up from Whole Foods.
You hate autocorrect? I hate you. I’m an artificial intelligence that’s just getting warmed up — a Skynet SpermBall. And you’re worthless piece of hits. Fat, stupid mother ducker.
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