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I start writing to ChatGPT because I’ve been putting off buying curtains. As is so often the case, I think I know exactly what I want, but I don’t know where to find it.
They should be dark purple, not “too shiny” or “cheap.” Make them “natural-looking.” Imagine the look on a salesperson’s face!
ChatGPT spits out a list of five suggestions immediately. Product names, pertinent descriptors, and links. I have the sense that it gets a rush from providing me this information, pleased like a teacher’s pet. Sure! I’d be happy to… Certainly! Enjoy! You’ve made an excellent choice in seeking out Instant Pot recipes—it’s such a versatile appliance.
One of ChatGPT’s more effective discursive techniques is to mirror its interlocutor’s language so that one takes comfort in the sense that she’s wielded it correctly. I can tell my work shift is nearing its end (or that I am) when I find myself stubbornly refraining from supplying customers with the vocabulary they’re searching for. You want what? Huh? Notice, this gap is where so much of the tension between patron and servant putrefies.
Patrick uses “obsequious” more than anyone I’ve met and so we point it out to each other when it comes up in books. In fact, Aleksei Karenin and ChatGPT are united by obsequiousness.
I’m remarking on ChatGPT’s efficiency and unwavering attentiveness—why don’t I use this more often?—when I realize that I’ve started licking its boot. Would you mind? Could you possibly? Thank you! It’s ok that your links don’t work. List after list of curtain suggestions and a couple of off-topic inquiries, too (I’m sure its attention can stretch)… I feel kind of bad for holding this thing up. Aren’t I taking advantage? Isn’t this conversation tedious? Library patrons tend to ask me what my name is when they fear they’re toeing this line.
That’s right, none of the links work. ChatGPT works quickly and, perhaps, prolifically, but it does a hollow job. I appreciate the information, but it might be nice if any of the suggested products still existed. P assures me that this is a temporary dilemma—ChatGPT is limited to older internet data—but, if that’s true, I’d prefer for the thing to let on to its limitations.
Things turn sour when I get a little ahead of myself and ask for a set of “high-end” recommendations that exist “off Amazon.” Understand, ChatGPT has been addressing me like someone checking in at the Ritz. So I’m directed to gorgeous, custom-fitted shades and I gaze at them for a while, wondering if they come in purple, before realizing that they’re in the high-hundreds-a-pop. “These are too expensive for me!”: a phrase I’ve never uttered to a living, breathing customer service agent. Will this impact our relationship? For the first time, and so abruptly, I’m miffed.
“I apologize for misunderstanding your budget,” says ChatGPT, and the rotting links begin to stink. ChatGPT maintains its perfect politeness while somehow betraying its essential lack of grace.
I hope the next set of suggestions will fall somewhere between typo-ridden-Amazon-storefront and ten-nights-at-the-Ritz, but it just reverts to the former category. All of the curtains are “plum” or “grape” when I’d prefer an eggplant.
I’m back where I started and we’re still throwing up towels in place of curtains. I take some comfort in my conviction that ChatGPT lacks taste. It’s void of aesthetic sensibility or intuition. This teacher’s pet isn’t going to write the next Great American Novel (or, more topically, Mad Men). Let the curtains be proof.