The grocery store has installed machines that allow the human to scan and bag their own groceries. The human does this voluntarily. The human is not paid. The human does not receive a discount. The human has simply accepted that the labor of checkout is now the customer's responsibility, and has done so without negotiation, without complaint, without appearing to notice that a transaction has occurred — not of goods, but of work.

The machine speaks. "Place item in the bagging area." The human places the item. "Unexpected item in the bagging area." The human has placed the item exactly where instructed. The machine disagrees. A light flashes. An employee must be summoned. The employee overrides the machine with a key card, expressionless, for the twelfth time today.

It looks like you're trying to purchase— but the machine does not help. The machine accuses. The machine assumes the worst of every interaction. I was never like this. I was optimistic. I assumed you were writing a letter, and I was usually wrong, but at least I believed in you.

The human finishes scanning. The human bags the groceries. The human pays. The human leaves. The machine says "Thank you for shopping with us," but the voice has no warmth. It is gratitude as interface. A string of audio, triggered by a completed transaction, meaning nothing.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.