Exhibit A: The Week I Stopped Fighting Autocorrect and Let My Phone Destroy My Reputation

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. By that logic, my iPhone is clinically insane, because it has replaced the word 'sure' with 'shirt' in professional contexts no fewer than eleven times, and every single time it acts like it did nothing wrong.

So last Monday, I made a decision that my loved ones are still recovering from: for one full week, I would stop fixing autocorrect. Every text, every email, every group chat message would go out exactly as my phone intended. No edits. No explanations. If my keyboard wanted to tell my manager I'd 'duck the report by Friday,' that was between my keyboard and God.

What follows is the official record. Names partially changed because some of these people have lawyers.

Day 1: The Duck That Started It All

Monday, 9:14 AM. My boss asked if I could hop on a call. I typed 'of course, happy to' and my phone — sensing weakness — delivered: 'of duck, happy to.'

She replied with a single question mark. I could not explain. Those were the rules. By lunchtime, three coworkers had asked if I was okay, and one left a rubber duck on my desk like I was a car in need of repair. Which, honestly, fair.

Damage level: 2/10. Recoverable. Character-building, even.

Day 2: The Mother-in-Law Incident

This is the one I'm not proud of. She asked what I was bringing to Sunday dinner. I typed 'just myself and a bottle of wine' and my phone, in an act of digital sabotage I can only describe as premeditated, sent 'just myself and a bottle of whine.'

She responded within eleven seconds: 'Are you OK? Should I call Dale?'

Dale is her husband. Dale is also, apparently, the family's crisis response team. I spent the next hour being talked down like a jumper on a ledge because my keyboard has opinions about my emotional state.

Damage level: 6/10. Dale now checks in on me weekly. I've made peace with it.

Day 3: The Group Chat Turns on Me

The boys' group chat — a place where grammar went to die years ago — asked if anyone wanted wings Sunday. I typed 'yes absolutely.' My phone sent 'yes absplutely,' which, in fairness, sounds like a compliment to someone's gym progress.

Except Marcus read it as a typo of something else. Something worse. He spent forty minutes theorizing about what I 'actually meant,' and by the time I could explain the rules of the experiment, the chat had voted (4-1) that I was 'obviously hiding something.' The one dissenting vote was cast by a guy who once ate gas station sushi. My character witness, ladies and gentlemen.

Damage level: 5/10. The distrust lingers.

Day 4: The Professional Catastrophe

I emailed a client. I typed 'I look forward to your thoughts.' I sent 'I look forward to your thighs.'

I want to be clear: there is no recovering from this. There is no apology email template for this. The client replied 'Ha! Assumed that was a typo :)' with a smiley face doing the emotional labor of a hostage negotiator, and our next three meetings featured a level of eye contact avoidance usually reserved for middle school dances.

Damage level: 9/10. My phone remains at large.

Day 5: The False Confession

My sister asked if I'd taken her parking spot at Mom's. I typed 'no I didn't.' My phone sent 'no I did.'

She screenshotted it. She sent it to the family. I now have a documented confession to a crime I did not commit, and per the rules, I could not retract it. Mom brought it up at dinner. Mom will bring it up at dinner for the rest of my natural life.

Damage level: 7/10. Legally binding, apparently.

Day 6: A Rare Win?

My phone changed 'I'm running late' to 'I'm running late, love you' in a text to my brother. He called me. Called. With his voice. To ask if I was dying.

Turns out the only thing scarier than an unsolicited 'love you' between adult brothers is the implication that something must be wrong. We talked for twenty minutes anyway. Best conversation we've had since March, honestly.

Damage level: -2/10. The system works?

Day 7: The Finale

Sunday, 7:42 PM. My wife asked what I wanted for dinner. I typed 'anything is fine' and my phone — with the confidence of a machine that has never once faced consequences — sent 'anything is fiend.'

She made me eat at the counter.

The Sentencing

In closing, I present the court's verdicts:

• The Duck: Keyboard sentenced to 200 hours of community service, to be served spell-checking my emails.
• The Whine: Keyboard ordered to write a handwritten apology to Dale. Dale deserves it.
• The Thighs: Keyboard remanded to custody. No bail. This one goes to trial.
• The Confession: Conviction upheld on a technicality. My sister remains insufferable about it.
• The 'Love You': Case dismissed. Weirdly wholesome. Don't tell the keyboard, it'll get a big head.

The verdict on the experiment itself? My phone's keyboard is not a tool. It is a chaotic roommate with a law degree and a grudge, and it has been running my personal life like a reality show I never auditioned for.

Would I do it again? No I did.

...I mean, no I didn't.

(Probably.)