I hate my new car.

Rather, I hate the AI that came with it. I hate the ChatGPT that informs the female voice that talks to me regardless of whether I’ve requested her indulgence. She’s turning me from a person who merely talked to herself into a ranting she-devil who screams at a nonexistent entity, probably risking arrest and permanent confinement in a mental institution (if we still had those).

My German-made vehicle is not atypical of 2025 models. Carmakers increasingly are incorporating artificial intelligence into their products, to help drivers get maximum pleasure from their ride. Why don’t they light me a cigarette while they’re at it?

As a Point A-to-Point B kind of person, I view cars as modes of transport, not spa experiences. As a long-distance commuter, I will spend extra money on comfort, mostly the seat, and the safety features that enhance the likelihood I will survive a worst-case scenario. I usually drive a white car because it’s impossible to miss against a backdrop of asphalt, which tends to absorb darker-colored cars.

After several white SUVs (I lease), I indulged my wild side and selected a sportier, scaled-down car with a light silver-green finish. “Nobody else has it,” my dealer told me. Mistake No. 1. He also seduced me with promises of “incredible technology.” Of course, this is the same dealer who once told me to read the manual and I’d know as much as he does. In other words, buena suerte, honey.

“Over the top” doesn’t quite describe what this car can do. It doesn’t drive itself, though it did take control of the steering wheel on my first ride, easing me into the center of my lane from which I had drifted slightly. No, no, no, no. Diving into the three-inch-thick User Manual that consumed the entire cavity of the glove compartment, I was able to dismantle the “steering wheel help option” that had been selected for me.

Did I mention she’s a talker?

Here’s the thing. I’m not lonely. Ever. I don’t need a chatterbox riding shotgun. I prefer to talk to myself, which I do pretty much all the time. Other loners and introverts will understand. Among other explanations, I find myself amusing and I never interrupt or contradict myself.

Some things my invisible minder does quite well. I’ll say, “Hey Mercedes, I’m hot,” and she’ll say, “I’m turning the temperature down to 64.” Fine. Thank you. “You’re welcome.” Ugh. Other things have been so annoying, I was forced to break my Lenten vow to cease using profanity.

I’m driving along wishing my car were white and chatting with myself when Miss Prissy Pants interrupts to say she can’t help me with “that” right now. “I’m not talking to you,” I say, and she responds, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that, please?” “I’m not talking to you, dadgummit!”

“I’m afraid I’ll need more information to help you with that,” she says, “but did you know that I can make animal sounds? Ask me what sound a dog makes.” Seriously? Of course, I did. And she did. Bark like a dog. She can do elephants, giraffes and cats, too. I stopped there.

I called my dealer, and he said if I just hit “stop” when she starts talking, “she’ll eventually learn that you don’t want to chat.” I couldn’t find the stop button, so I tried being nicer in hopes she’d pipe down. I said, “Hey, Mercedes, are we going to be good friends?” Nada. She ghosted me. I hoped this meant she didn’t want to be friends and wouldn’t talk to me anymore.

But she isn’t a mind reader (yet). And she probably means well. Wait, no she doesn’t. She doesn’t mean anything. She’s not real. She’s not a person. She’s … what exactly? A rude, chatty know-nothing is what. “Helpers” like her are everywhere. And I just want to be left alone.

In no time, cars will even take over the driving so we can text and wave to the highway patrol robots as we speed past. The array of technological indulgences can’t fully be imagined even now, though if my car is any indication of what’s ahead, those of us who find comfort in solitude and silence will be begging the tech gods for ‘53 Chevies and rotary phones.

In the meantime, my car has forced me to stop talking to myself and, therefore, has robbed me of my favorite travel buddy. Thanks a lot, Mercedes. Please don’t say it.

Kathleen Parker’s email address is kathleenparker@washpost.com.