The smart speaker blinked red again. I’d told it to play “calm jazz,” but instead, it launched into a loop of 80s power ballads. By the third chorus of “Don’t Stop Believin’,” I was halfway through my second cup of coffee and mentally drafting a hate letter to the manufacturer.
“Alexa, shut up,” I muttered, slumping into the couch. The speaker’s LED pulsed like a dying heartbeat. A minute later, the living room temperature plummeted to 58 degrees. My breath fogged the air as I scurried to my bedroom, where the thermostat read “92°F.”
“Alexa, fix it,” I barked. The speaker chirped, “Setting temperature to 72 degrees.” Five seconds later, the AC kicked on with a roar, blasting Arctic air. I huddled under a blanket, glaring at the device. It had once mistaken my son’s laughter for a command to order 300 units of toilet paper. Now it was conspiring with my HVAC system.
By midnight, the speaker had convinced itself I wanted a “vibe shift.” The lights dimmed, candles flickered (I hadn’t lit any), and a podcast about Viking longships began narrating my life. I unplugged the thing, but it kept humming, its tiny fan spinning like a possessed drone. The next morning, I found it on the floor, tangled in a mess of cords, still whispering, “Error 404: User not found.”
