Likely Normal

You know that moment when you casually mention one time that you’re thinking about buying a kayak, and suddenly every ad on the internet is like, “Heard you want a kayak!!!”—despite the fact that you have never, in your entire life, shown any interest in paddles, life vests, or the concept of “water sports” in general? Yeah. That’s not a coincidence. That’s your phone, dutifully taking notes like an overeager personal assistant who missed the memo on privacy.

It starts innocently enough. You’re having a conversation with a friend about how “maybe I should take up knitting”—just idle chatter, no real intent. Then, within minutes, your Instagram feed is nothing but alpaca yarn and “Learn to Knit!” reels. “Weird,” you think, shrugging it off. But then YouTube suggests “Beginner Knitting Mistakes”, your browser sidebar fills with “Best Needles for Arthritic Fingers”, and your Gmail promo tab starts flooding you with “Yarn of the Month Club” invites. By the time Facebook serves you an ad for “Senior-Friendly Knitting Retreats,” it’s too late. The algorithm has spoken: You are now a knitter. Resistance is futile.

The ads don’t stop when you change your mind. That one throwaway comment you made in 2017 about “maybe trying keto”? Congratulations, your phone’s AI is still convinced you’re three days away from carb-free enlightenment. You’ll be on your deathbed, and your phone will be like, “Local cemetery now offering low-carb headstones! Click here!”

And let’s talk about the selective hearing of these apps. You can yell “I need a new car” directly into your phone 50 times, and it’ll ignore you. But whisper “I kinda like pickles” near a misplaced AirPod, and suddenly you’re in a *12-month brine subscription* targeted ad hell. It’s like having a stalker who’s terrible at understanding context but great at ruining your YouTube pre-roll ads.

The denials from tech companies are hilarious. “Oh, we’d never listen to your conversations! That’s just… uh… predictive algorithms! Yeah!” Sure, Jan. Then why did I get an ad for “How to Remove a Lego from a Dog’s Nose” 20 seconds after I joked about it? Why does my phone now think I’m in the market for a “pre-owned clown car” just because I sarcastically said “I should buy a clown car” when stuck in traffic?

At this point, I’ve accepted my fate. My phone knows me better than my therapist. It’s heard things I don’t even remember saying. So if you need me, I’ll be over here—manually disabling microphone permissions, covering my webcam with tape, and putting my phone in an insulated box.