There we were. 

Somewhere in the outer or inner Docklands, on the edge of the city, when the buzzards, and worse, the buzzwords began to take hold.

Not the usual PR slop or techbro Kool-Aid — no, this was worse. 

This was “Correct.”

Sharp. Clinical. 

The sound of someone in loafers killing a thought with a single kick.

“Correct,” they said.

No smile. No joy. No context.

Just correct — like they'd just solved God’s crossword and wanted a medal.

I nearly vomited.

Listen: I’ve been in rooms with armed guerillas and amphetamine lawyers, and not once did anyone bark “Correct!” like they were rebooting HAL-9000. 

People talked. They agreed. They laughed, they fought, they imagined the shape of truth together.

This… this was something else.

This was language weaponised. A conversational stun-gun. 

The corporate lobotomy of the soul.

“Correct” is what you say when you’re too scared to say, “Yes, exactly,” or “Hell yeah!” or “You beautiful bastard, I was thinking the same thing.”

It’s a lid on the pot. 

A plug in the socket. 

A way to say shut up without moving your lips.

And the worst part? They think it’s polite. 

Professional.

As if courtesy requires you to sound like a voicemail menu.

Well I say nope

I say tear the word down, set fire to the spellchecked zeitgeist, and start using your bloody voice again.

Because if I hear one more dead-eyed sycophant whisper “Correct” into a Zoom call like they’re defusing a bomb, I will throw this laptop out the window and walk into the desert to make friends with a lizard with more emotional range.

Correct?
No.
Alive.
That’s all I want. It's not a lot to ask.