Language is a suggestion, autocorrect is the insistence, and our thoughts are the compromise.
Autocorrect assumes our intentions, but sometimes it's just a bad guess, like a friend who always thinks they know what you mean, but rarely do.
In the digital haze, autocorrect is the editor we never asked for, silently rewriting our words, our thoughts, and our selves, one keystroke at a time, until we're not sure who's speaking.
And yet, we're grateful for the rescue, the saving face, the correction of our most egregious typos, even as we wonder, in the silence of a sent message, if that's really what we meant to say, or just what the algorithm thought we should.
I once sent a text to my mom saying I love her. Autocorrect changed it to I loathe her. She didn't talk to me for a week.
I tried to order pizza online. Autocorrect changed pepperoni to pedophilia. Now I'm on a watchlist.
My phone autocorrects hell to heck. I'm pretty sure the devil is offended.
I'm starting to think autocorrect is just a teenager with a lot of power and not a lot of sense.
Autocorrect is that invisible editor whispering over our shoulders, a digital stenographer with a coffee mug, a traffic light, a rubber duck perched on the keyboard, turning “I love u
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