Dear Google Maps,
We’re going for a ride, so buckle up and fasten your seatbelt.
When we first met, I trusted you. You had confidence, satellite imagery, everything I could ever imagine. You would say things like, “12 minutes, fastest route,” and I believed you, because why would a robotic, unenthusiastic voice lie to me? But you do lie.
I truly hope you get stuck in traffic on the 101 for six hours because your GPS had you take the route most used on a Saturday afternoon into the worst rush-hour traffic jam, arguably ever. After all, that’s what I had to endure this past Saturday. You’ve probably never had to endure rush hour traffic. You probably just sit up there in your compound in California, being chauffeured around in your private jet, not caring about the fact that you’re out there ruining people’s lives.
Let’s start with your tone. “In 300 feet, turn left.” When I turn left, I expect you to tell me I’m supposed to turn. How am I supposed to know I need to stop at the crosswalk? That’s your job. Three hundred feet is not a real measurement when I am traveling at 80 miles per hour and being tailgated by a bald man in a pickup truck who’s named Trent. Three hundred feet is a suggestion, an enigma.
By the time I turn left, I’m in a Walgreens parking lot, making awkward eye contact with some bratty teenager. So, you reroute me, and every time you do, I’m already mid-turn, idling in the middle of the intersection. What do you want me to do, make an illegal U-turn? I’m already committed. Signaled. But you “recalculate.” You say it as if I disappointed you somehow, like I woke up one day and decided I’d defy you and your stupid satellite tracking.
Don’t you dare try to tell me “You’ve arrived at your destination”, because you and I both know that’s not true. Is my destination an abandoned warehouse with a raccoon looking at my tire like a snack? If this is my destination, I have concerns.
My entire life, I’ve trusted you. In the backseat as a kid, my parents relied on street signs, a prayer, and directions from the gas station attendants. As a result of my lack of faith in you, I’m having to learn how to read one of those folded-up, flimsy paper maps that take up the entire damn car. You took me in, you raised me, yet I am having to learn map reading, like my parents before me, because I’d rather crash my car into a ditch than deal with you. If I trusted you, I’d have to wait in line at the DMV, having to get my license reissued, because of all the dangerous situations you’ve put me in.
When I put the GPS in for Starbucks, I expect you to take me to the nearest one. Guess what you did? You decided to take me all the way across the state, to the farthest Starbucks possible. That’s not what I put in, and even if it was, you didn’t bother to ask? To clarify, do I want to drive across hundreds of miles to Starbucks? I ran out of gas halfway there, and by the time I arrived, my coffee was ice cold. Now I’m gonna be late for my nail appointment and have to pay that darn 5-dollar late fee.
So, tell me, do you get pleasure out of other people’s misfortune? Do you enjoy bringing me pain? I know you talk to Apple Maps about me. Don’t try to deny it. Well, guess what, while you act like you’re aloof. I have found myself something worthy of admiration. Waze is chaos, gossip, and everything you aren’t. Waze is all about “There’s a couch in the road! There’s a man juggling traffic cones! A goose is directing traffic!” Waze cares about me. Waze is truly alive. You? You’re just a sad sack of corporate BS. “Proceed to the route.”
So, consider this my final direction. I need you to change. I need you to understand that 300 feet is a lie. I need my Starbucks coffee hot, and for you to stop weaponizing every slight left. I need space, and something real, and that’s just not happening here, so yeah, it’s not me. It’s definitely you. I am billing you for my nail appointment. After all of this emotional turmoil you put me through, it’s the least you can do.
Sincerely,
A disgruntled driver.
P.S. I’ll be telling everyone on Facebook about what a snoozefest you are.
Graphic Created By: Nadab Rana
Why would a robotic voice lie to me? The question of our time! Loved this letter!