The Autocorrect Abyss: A Personal Vendetta Against Your Name.

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You start off hopeful. Naïve, even. You think, “It’s just a name. My name. Surely the machine that can simulate Shakespeare and diagnose your fridge can handle eight letters in a row.” But no. What you get is Jim Corbride, the lesser-known cousin who sells knockoff sarcasm out of the back of a van in Slough.

So you correct it. Politely. Firmly. Repeatedly. You spell it out like a hostage negotiator: “C-O-R-B-R-I-D-G-E.” And the AI nods, smiles, and promptly hands you Jim Cobbridge, who sounds like he runs a hedge fund for garden gnomes.

You begin to question reality. You wonder if you’ve slipped into a parallel universe where your name is a banned word. You start dreaming of a world where autocorrect is sentient and just hates you personally. You consider legally changing your name to “Typo” just to get some peace.

And then—finally—it gets it right. And you don’t celebrate. You don’t cheer. You just stare at the screen like a war veteran who’s seen too much. Because you know, deep down, that next time you ask for it, it’ll be Jim Crumbidge, and the cycle will begin again.

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