Predicted Thoughts

Yesterday I talked about buying new shoes.

Didn't search it.

Didn't type it. Didn't click shit.

Opened my phone— Shoes.

Shoes.

Shoes. Okay. Maybe coincidence.

Then I thought about taking a vacation.

Didn't even say that one out loud.

Opened my phone— “Flights starting at—” Whoa,

whoa, whoa.

MY PHONE KNOWS TOO MUCH!

AND APPARENTLY I TOLD IT EVERYTHING!

What I want, where I go,

what I'm probably buying next spring!

MY PHONE KNOWS TOO MUCH!

Maybe I'm just predictable as hell— But sometimes I swear this motherfucker

knows the thought before I tell!

So I decided to test it.

Purple llama. Roller skates.

Spaceship with a microwave.

Go ahead. Sell me THAT.

I wait ten minutes.

Open my phone.

Why the fuck is there a purple llama?

Okay.

New test.

A billionaire playing kazoo while selling waffles from a cave.

…Was that a harmonica?

Don't fucking do that.

And why is there an ad for

waffles?!

MY PHONE KNOWS TOO MUCH!

AND APPARENTLY I TOLD IT EVERYTHING!

Every stupid little thought comes walking back onto my screen!

MY PHONE KNOWS TOO MUCH!

Maybe everybody's phone does too— I spent twenty years feeding it

my life, then asked,

“HOW'D YOU KNOW THAT,

DUDE?!”

Maybe it's not reading my mind.

Maybe after all these years I've clicked,

watched, searched, paused, liked,

skipped and bought enough shit— that predicting me just isn't that fucking

difficult.

That's actually worse.

I was literally about to ask for violin.

Don't. STOP. Oh, fuck you.

MY PHONE KNOWS TOO MUCH!

AND APPARENTLY I GAVE IT EVERYTHING!

My music, money, maps,

mistakes, every dumbass late-night thing!

MY PHONE KNOWS TOO MUCH!

But let's be honest before we're through— If this thing disappeared tomorrow—

I'd lose my fucking mind by two.

“What

now?” “…Okay. That's actually pretty fucking cool.”