My phone has decided it's my emotional support animal, gently correcting "what the f***" to "what the fudge" mid-rant like I'm a toddler who scraped his knee. Yesterday I was genuinely angry at my landlord and sent him "You absolute banana"—my phone's idea of me, apparently. He replied asking if I meant something else, which somehow made me madder than the original problem. Now I'm pretty sure my landlord thinks I communicate exclusively in fruit insults.

My phone has decided my name is "Derek the Adequate," and it's won three separate arguments about this. Last Tuesday I introduced myself to my date as Derek, but my phone texted ahead—literally texted my date—with a calendar invite signed "Derek the Adequate." She showed up anyway, which was worse than standing me up. Now when I call my mother, Siri announces me as "Derek the Adequate calling," as if my phone is a disappointed guidance counselor. I've tried deleting it forty times; my phone simply waits forty-one days and reinstalls it, the way you'd hide money from an addict.