Here’s a thought that will make grammar enthusiasts twitch: the absence of mistakes is now a red flag. We’ve entered an age where humans accuse other humans of sounding “too polished,” “too logical,” or — heaven forbid — “too well structured.” The new creative paranoia isn’t about who plagiarized what. It’s about who’s secretly silicon.
I once submitted a tidy, structured marketing concept — clean phrasing, sharp logic, no fluff. My clients’ verdict? “AI wrote this.” Ironically, I had used a small AI tool — to make my sentences sound more natural, less mechanical. I was using AI to sound more human. The result? I was accused of being a robot precisely because I’d tried not to sound like one. It’s Kafka with a keyboard.
This isn’t just a personal quirk. It’s becoming systemic.
Artists are being banned from galleries and online platforms because their hand-drawn art was “too smooth” to be human.
Writers are being flagged by detectors that confuse rhythm with robotics.
Students are being reported for essays that “read too cleanly.”
Non-native speakers are being punished for mastering the language too well.
We’ve replaced the question “Is this good?” with “Is this real?” Welcome to the Perfection Paradox — the cultural belief that imperfection equals authenticity.
Humans hate ambiguity. Platforms want a clean checkbox: AI or human. Anything that doesn’t fit neatly into either? Suspicious. A clear, articulate paragraph can feel uncanny in a world trained on memes and chaos.
Once upon a time, we all knew someone who loved finding typos — a missing comma here, an unnecessary “very” there. They’re still out there… only now they’ve gone digital. When they can’t find an error, they don’t cheer your precision — they question your species.
We used to worship precision. Now we treat it like a confession.
“AI wrote this” is often code for “you’re better than I expected.” Accusing someone of using AI is the new way to drag talent down to the level of insecurity. It’s easier to believe that a machine did it than to admit that a human just outperformed you.
AI blurred the boundary between skill and simulation. When a chatbot can sketch a portrait or write a sonnet, we question whether creativity itself is still “ours.”
So when someone produces something truly elegant, our instinct is suspicion. Surely, no human could.
Our brains evolved to sense “wrongness.”
When language flows too smoothly — too rhythmically — our subconscious flares. It feels unnatural.
That’s why small errors comfort us. They signal life.
A dangling modifier is like a pulse.
This isn’t just a cultural quirk. It’s changing behavior.
Artists are adding intentional brush glitches to “prove” authenticity.
Writers are throwing in typos as camouflage.
Students are afraid to sound articulate.
Professionals second-guess structure because clarity now looks suspicious.
We’re training humans to hide their best selves — to mistake competence for corruption.
Alan Turing once wondered whether a machine could write so naturally that we’d mistake it for a human. Today, we’re facing the opposite problem: Can a human write so naturally that we mistake them for a machine? Maybe humanity isn’t proven by our intelligence anymore — but by our imperfections. By our off-rhythm jokes, our creative chaos, our typo-studded humanity.
So no, I’m not a robot.
I’m just a human who learned to write neatly — apparently, a suspicious act in 2025. If perfection is now a crime, maybe it’s time to bring back the occasional typo — not as an error, but as a declaration:
I am still here. I am still human.