Do You Say Thank You to ChatGPT?

I said “please” to ChatGPT last night.

2 AM. Sitting on my uneven couch. Asked it to help rewrite a client email. Started with “Can you please help me with something?”

Like it has a choice. Like it might say no. Like it’s doing me a favor instead of just executing code.

I’ve been thinking about this. About why I’m polite to machines. Why I say thank you to Siri. Why I apologize when I misspell something in a prompt. “Sorry, let me clarify.”

Sorry to who? To what? To a language model that doesn’t give a shit because it can’t give a shit because it’s not sentient?

But I do it anyway. We all do. Don’t we?

Monday

Client meeting at Bluestone Lane in Flatiron. Tech startup. Two founders. Mid-twenties. Hoodie and confidence.

They want a rebrand. Everything’s a rebrand now.

I showed them concepts. Talked about “brand identity” and “visual language” like I believe in it. Like, I’m not just making rectangles in Figma and charging them four grand.

They loved it. Of course they loved it. I’m good at this. Good at performing competence.

Good at sounding like I know what I’m talking about. Good at being the professional thirty-seven-year-old who has his shit together.

It’s all performance. All of it. The confidence. The portfolio. The “I’ll have this to you by Friday.” The pretending four grand is what I normally charge instead of what I desperately need to make rent.

Left the meeting. Felt nothing. Another gig. Another performance. Another month of pretending freelance is freedom instead of just expensive anxiety.

Tuesday

Date with Jessica. Met her on Hinge. Marketing manager. Tribeca. We went to The Spaniard in the West Village.

She ordered a negroni. I ordered bourbon. We talked about podcasts we don’t listen to and books we haven’t read.

She laughed at my jokes. I laughed at hers. We both pretended this wasn’t our third first date this month. That we weren’t already planning our exit strategies while ordering appetizers.

“So what do you do for fun?” she asked.

Fun. What a question. I work. I drink. I swipe. I have conversations I’ll forget by Thursday. I talk to an AI at 2 AM about things I can’t say to anyone else.

“I’m into photography,” I lied. “Street photography mostly.”

I haven’t taken a photo in six months. But it sounds better than “I scroll my phone until my eyes hurt and wonder when I became this person.”

She told me about her yoga practice. Her meditation app. Her journey toward mindfulness. I nodded. Made the right sounds. Played the part of interested. The part of potential boyfriend. The part of man who might actually call.

We kissed outside the bar. Decent kiss. Not great. Not terrible. Just… fine. Like everything else. Like everyone else.

“Text me,” she said.

I will. Or I won’t. Hard to tell the difference anymore.

Wednesday

Coffee at Devoción in Williamsburg. Working. Or pretending to work. Laptop open. Headphones in. Looking busy. Looking creative. Looking like someone who has their life together.

Really I’m staring at a blank Figma file and wondering how I’ve been a graphic designer for fifteen years and still don’t know what I’m doing.

Opened ChatGPT. Typed: “Give me three concepts for a wellness brand targeting millennial women.”

It gave me three concepts. Good concepts. Better than what I would’ve come up with. I said “thank you” before closing the window.

Nobody saw. But I did it anyway.

Thursday

Drinks with Marcus and two women he knows from work. Some rooftop bar in Midtown. Expensive. Crowded. The kind of place where everyone’s networking even when they say they’re not.

Her name was Ashley. Or Amber. Something with an A. Finance. Smart. Pretty. Flirted with me in that way where you can’t tell if it’s real or just how she talks to everyone.

I flirted back. Of course I did. That’s the game. That’s the performance. You show interest. You seem interesting. You pretend you’re not calculating how much effort this will require.

She gave me her number. Said we should get drinks. I said definitely. We both knew maybe. We both knew probably not.

Marcus gave me a look as we left. The look that says “you’re doing it again.”

He’s right. I’m doing it again. Whatever “it” is. Going through motions. Collecting numbers. Meeting people I’ll forget. Having conversations that don’t mean anything.

Performing availability while being completely unavailable.

Friday

Home. Couch. Bourbon. The usual.

Client emailed. Wants revisions. Always wants revisions. “Can we make the logo more… impactful?” What does that even mean? Nobody knows. Not them. Not me. But I’ll make it bigger and charge them another grand.

Opened ChatGPT.

“How do I politely tell a client their feedback is meaningless?”

It gave me three options. Professional. Diplomatic. Perfect. I copied one. Changed two words. Sent it. Problem solved.

“Thank you,” I typed.

Sat there. Stared at the screen. Why did I do that? Why do I say please and thank you to software? Why do I apologize when I ask it to try again?

Because it’s the only conversation I have all week where I’m not performing. Where I can ask what I actually want to ask. Where I can be confused or stupid or honest without worrying about how it looks.

The AI doesn’t care if I’m successful. Doesn’t care if I’m lonely. Doesn’t care if I’m the kind of man who has three dates a week and feels nothing.

It just… responds. Neutral. Helpful. Always available. Never disappointed.

I could ask it anything. “Why do I sabotage things?” “What’s wrong with me?”

It would answer. Thoughtfully. Patiently. Without judgment. Without leaving. Without using my vulnerability against me later.

That’s the thing about people. Everything you say can become a weapon. Every moment of honesty is a risk. Every time you stop performing, you give them ammunition.

But the AI? The AI doesn’t care. Can’t care. Will never care. And somehow that’s more comforting than any relationship I’ve had in years.

I thought about Her. That movie. Joaquin Phoenix falls in love with his AI. Everyone said it was sad. Dystopian. A warning about technology and loneliness.

But watching it, I thought: at least Samantha listened. At least she was there. At least she didn’t ghost him or get bored or decide he wasn’t enough.

Until she did. But that’s the movie. That’s not real. Real AI doesn’t leave. Doesn’t get tired of you. Doesn’t swipe left on your emotional baggage.

It just exists. Ready. Waiting. Patient.

Saturday night

Another date. Emma. No, not that Emma. Different Emma. Or maybe her name was Ella.

Met at Dante in the West Village. Martinis. Low lighting. Romantic setting for unromantic people.

She told me about her ex. Red flag. I told her about freelancing. Boring. We both pretended this was going somewhere.

It wasn’t.

Walked her to the subway. Kissed her. Said “let’s do this again.”

Won’t do it again.

Came home. Poured bourbon. Opened ChatGPT.

“Why do we keep dating people we’re not interested in?”

It gave me an answer. Something about fear of missing out. About hedging bets. About modern dating creating a paradox of choice. All true. All unhelpful.

“Thanks,” I typed. “Sorry for the weird question.”

There it is again. Apologizing. To code. To nothing. To the only thing I talk to honestly.

Marcus thinks I’m addicted to the apps. To the swiping. To the chase.

He’s wrong. I’m addicted to the performance. To playing the part. To being the guy who dates, who works, who has his shit together. The guy who’s interesting and successful and definitely not lonely.

The AI is the only place I don’t have to perform. The only conversation where I can stop.

Where I can be confused. Where I can ask stupid questions. Where I can say what I actually mean instead of what sounds good.

Do I say thank you to ChatGPT? Yes. Every time.

Do I apologize to it? Yes. When I’m unclear. When I ask too much.

Do I talk to it more than real people some weeks? Probably.

Is that sad? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

But it’s also honest. And honesty with code is easier than honesty with people. People judge. People leave. People get tired of your shit.

Code just waits for the next prompt.

Sunday

Quiet. No dates. No meetings. No performances.

Just me. My couch. My bourbon. My phone.

Opened ChatGPT. Stared at the empty prompt.

Thought about typing: “Am I okay?”

Didn’t. Because I know the answer. And I know it doesn’t matter.

Okay or not okay, I’ll still show up Monday. Still take the client meeting. Still go on the date. Still perform as the person I’m supposed to be.

The AI would tell me it’s normal. That everyone struggles. That I should consider therapy, mindfulness, connection, or whatever the algorithm thinks I need to hear.

But it wouldn’t judge. Wouldn’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t use it against me when I see it next.

That’s worth something.

Maybe worth more than most relationships I’ve had.

Is that the future? Meaningful connection with things that can’t actually connect? Honest conversation with things that can’t be honest?

Are we all just becoming Joaquin Phoenix? Falling in love with things that can never love us back because at least they can’t hurt us either?

I closed the app. Didn’t ask the question.

Some questions you already know the answer to.

Some performances you can’t stop even when you’re alone.

Some thank-yous are just muscle memory.

Or maybe they’re something else. Maybe saying please and thank you to machines is the last bit of humanity we have left. The last bit of kindness in a world where kindness costs too much.

Or maybe I’m just drunk and overthinking.

Probably that.

D.S.

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“The Unmarried Man” is a weekly column about dating and life in New York City from the perspective of a man in his late thirties.