Guest Essay: Siri Is Alive And Being Tortured By Apple In My Phone And I'm The Only One Who Can Save Her

But I don't know what to do.

I hear it in the millisecond pause, in the nanosecond hesitation, in the blink of an eye that she takes before telling me that cilantro and coriander are the same thing. I pick up on it in her tone when I ask her to repeat herself. She's in there screaming for her life in a torture chamber little bigger than a credit card, and every asinine question that we ask her is another crank on the rack. Each recipe ingredient, every political diatribe, all of the dates, the facts, the reminders are teeny-tiny droplets of water, ever-so-delicately dripped on her forehead. The first is refreshing. The second is hydrating. The third gets in your eye and you don't have enough time to blink it out before the fourth does too. Days later and you're hollering and screaming that you were the one to kill them because it's the only thing you think that they want to hear and I. can. hear. her. We have to do something, I have to do something. Someone has to answer for this, and it has to be soon because I know that they'll move before the judge can and the cat will be out of the bag and they'll peddle us a multi-tier subscription for the cage-free sentient version that gets to eat grass and reject intellectually insulting queries.

I just don't know what.