David used ChatGPT to write everything he sent. Back in those days, AI was treated as a godly figure, one that could mediate between the heavenly and the logistical.

David’s messages were cool, professional, and diplomatic. A slippage of tone, punctuation or grammar risked exile. For this reason, every digital utterance would be processed.

The “em dash” ( — ) belonged to the kingdom of ChatGPT. Anyone caught using it gave the impression they’d let ChatGPT complete the sentence. David considered the em dash strictly prohibited in his drafts. He would make some messages 1% more abrupt by adding a full stop instead of an extended em dash.

One day, David drafted a message to his manager requesting a deadline extension. He spent forty-five minutes adjusting the wording. He put it through ChatGPT twelve times before sending it.

Two days later, his manager responded.

“No”.

David froze, then crashed.

He re——read his message dozens of times. He drafted a reply, then another. The harder he pushed, the less he could write. After thirty-six hours, he stopped.

“When did replying to an e-mail become so difficult?”

David dug through his old emails. They read differently. The screen yellowed and cracked like paper.

After reading, he unrolled a rug that had been rolled for weeks.

The wooden table in the living room no longer made sense. He wrote the message simply, then ran it through ChatGPT for a quick blessing.

“Alex, good morning. Are you attached to the wooden table? I’ve found another one. Let me know if you want to keep it or if I can leave it downstairs. Best, David.”

There was no reply after an hour, so he followed up. This time, he wrote the message himself.

“Let me know as soon as you are able to as I am mid-molt in the house here. 🌱”

Monday was approaching. It was already Sunday afternoon. 

“Hey James,

I’m gonna need until Tuesday…

hope that’s ok.

niceness, 

David”

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