There was a time when autocorrect was supposed to be our silent saviour—helping us spell “necessary” without mental gymnastics, swooping in to fix our clumsy thumbs, and making sure we didn’t accidentally text our boss about “ducking up the spreadsheet.” But somewhere along the line, autocorrect turned rogue. Mine, specifically, now appears to believe I’m a menace to society.
It started innocently enough. I tried to say “I’ll be home soon,” and it sent “I’ll be home soonish, if the crows don’t get me.” Ominous. Unnerving. Yet weirdly poetic. I could’ve let that go—chalked it up to predictive text and my love of gothic novels. But things escalated. Dramatically.
A Sabotage of the Most Personal Kind
Texting a friend:
Intended: “Do you want to grab dinner?”
Sent: “Do you want to grab danger?”
Look, I know I have dramatic taste in food, but I didn’t mean to imply we’d be dining in the underworld. Suddenly, autocorrect was making me sound like a Bond villain with a gluten allergy.
And it never stops at one word. Oh no. It rewrites entire moods. I try to be warm and friendly, it turns me into an ominous cryptid.
Intended: “Haha, no worries!”
Autocorrected: “Haha, no survivors.”
Excuse me?
The Daily Dread of Digital Communication
Modern life requires us to communicate almost exclusively via screens. This should be easier than the social horror of speaking to someone face-to-face, but autocorrect has turned every message into a game of Russian roulette. Will I send a normal sentence, or will it be something that gets screenshotted and added to a group chat titled “Unhinged Kerry, Again”?
Autocorrect doesn’t discriminate by context either. It’s just as happy to ruin your day professionally as it is personally.
Email to a colleague:
Intended: “Let’s circle back next week.”
Autocorrected: “Let’s circle back and weep.”
Honestly, not inaccurate, but still.
When Autocorrect Goes… Suggestively Rogue
Autocorrect doesn’t just change your words—it changes your entire reputation. There’s a fine line between flirty and felonious, and your phone is more than happy to drag you across it without warning.
Text to a date:
Intended: “Looking forward to dinner tonight!”
Autocorrected: “Looking forward to being under tonight!”
There’s no recovering from that. You either marry them or enter witness protection.
Or take this gem:
Message to a friend about redecorating:
Intended: “I need new cushions.”
Autocorrected: “I need new cougars.”
And suddenly you’re no longer talking soft furnishings—you’re recruiting for an entirely different lifestyle.
It’s the accidental double entendres that truly haunt the soul. Nothing quite like realising you’ve told your colleague you “can’t wait to be on top of it,” when what you meant was “I’ll handle the spreadsheet.”
The worst part? Autocorrect learns these mistakes. It remembers. You type “ducking” once and it never lets it go. You typo “thrust” instead of “trust” and suddenly your phone thinks you’re writing romance novels.
The Emotional Toll of Being Mistranslated by a Machine
It’s not just that it makes me look odd—it makes me question my own sanity. Has autocorrect always been this bad? Or am I just typing like a gremlin now? Have I fed it so much chaos that it now assumes every message is intended to be weird, threatening, or cryptic?
There’s a certain tragedy in seeing “be there in 5” become “beware the hive.” It’s poetic, yes. But I don’t want to live in fear of sending a cheerful “Happy Birthday!” only for it to arrive as “Happy Bloodthirsty!”
I miss the days when my biggest digital fear was a rogue emoji. Now I worry that I’ve texted someone “see you later” and it’s arrived as “See you never, Earth scum.”
And Yet, I Won’t Turn It Off
You’d think the logical move would be to go into settings and just turn autocorrect off. But no. Because I am British. And I am stubborn. And part of me believes that if I just type better, it will learn. It will get better. It will stop calling my aunt “Antichrist” in group chats.
Besides, autocorrect is too embedded now. It’s the clingy partner of predictive text—annoying, but always there. Always watching. Always waiting to swap “coming soon” with “commune spoon.”
My Conclusion: Autocorrect Has a Personality, and It’s Passive-Aggressive
There’s a distinct vibe to autocorrect’s errors: not random chaos, but a calculated twisting of tone. It’s like it’s read your diary and decided to mess with you just enough to ruin your day, but not enough to justify rage-quitting the English language.
Also, let’s be honest—autocorrect’s favourite hobby is turning innocent humans into accidental perverts. It’s got the subtlety of a Carry-On film and the timing of a dad joke at a funeral.
So the next time you read a bizarre message from me, know this: it probably started as something sweet and sensible. But somewhere between my thumbs and your screen, autocorrect decided to spice things up.
And if I ever text you “The ritual begins at dawn,” just know—I probably meant “See you at brunch.” Probably.
Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.
Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.
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