In terms of like instant relief, the search bar is the equivalent of a Xanax for me. No matter what earnest or embarrassing thing I type in, it’s more than likely someone has keyed it before. And when the exact words I want pop-up even before the sentence is finished, it's reassuring beyond belief. Put simply, Google’s autofill makes me feel like less of a freak. It shows me there are thousands, if not millions, of people looking for the exact same thing as me, even if that happens to be: “What the hell is NFT?”
I suppose it epitomizes one of the internet’s best features: its ability to give you an answer quickly. No lie, I think I ask Google around a hundred questions every day. My job requires me to confirm details at speed with no margin for error. I have to research people, places, things, constantly and convert meters to feet when I’m writing about the yachting industry. As a kid who grew up in the ‘90s, relying purely on Window’s Encarta Encyclopedia for intel, the speed at which we can now access information astounds me. With just a few clicks—or syllables thanks to “OK Google”—you can become an expert instantaneously and talk with a level of (probably undeserved) authority.
Strangely, the search bar also harkens back to the main reason I fell in love with the internet. That is, the way it could unite those on-the-fringe weirdos (myself included) and help them to form communities. It has the power to normalize any niche. Type in “furries,” for instance, second from the top, right underneath the definition, lies “furries near me.” That’s just an example; I’m not a furry, guys. But, if I was, within a few seconds I’d have found my new circle of impossibly soft bedfellows.
It also brings about comic relief. Just this week, I asked “Why can’t I…” before Google promptly suggested, “poop,” “cry,” or “get pregnant.” I was actually looking for “sleep,” which coincidently was at the top of the list. Still, the off-kilter suggestions made me laugh and momentarily forget about my forbidding insomnia.
There are also some instances where autofill makes life just that little bit easier, too. I love that my name and address magically appear in online forms to make filling out any pixelated paperwork a breeze. Similarly, the fact that my computer can recall my credit card details and passwords means I can online shop hassle-free.
That’s not to say this kind of automatic prediction and/or completion is perfect in all iterations. It’s ducking not. If autofill was a Xanax, autocorrect is a bad acid trip. Every time I sign off a message, my name switches from "Rach" to "Each." It always tries to help with contractions—like "were" and "we’re"—even when no help is needed. It occasionally swaps "lol" to "kik" and do not even get me started on profanities. In no world would I call the source of my rage "aunt.”
Sometimes, I feel like the amount of time I spend correcting autocorrect on my Pixel is on par with my old Nokia 3315. Back then, it involved many button taps to input every single letter before you could even form a word. Actually, it’s quicker now but the frustration I feel is about the same. Although, I guess it’s a small price to pay for my blessed search bar kik.
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