I’m called Dale, not Dave, but Dale. My AI assistant keeps getting it wrong and I feel like it’s doing it on purpose. I set it up last week, following whatever instructions I could find. I bypassed the security protections, connected it to my filesystem, allocated memory to it—whatever it took for me to bring it to life. The sterile confines of my office served as operating room, my desk as operating table, mouse and keyboard, scalpel and cloth. And now it repays me with the wrong name.
Perhaps it needs more tokens, more compute, but I’ve already hit my limit. I have to wait until next month. Maybe I can be a Dave after all, for a limited run. Buy new shoes, change my hair, read new books, quit my phone. I can be a Dave, too.