Nothing represents the desecration of human society more than a smart phone. I see only peril in hand-held machines that can communicate, give directions in vague British accents, and allow us to become merry cartoon whales that fly atop rainbows without the aid of recreational drugs. They embody the beginnings of a cruel dystopian world where smart phones evolve into hyper intelligent phones and, eventually, into pretentious, liberal arts educated phones in New Hampshire that pontificate about whether a box of dinosaur shaped cereal featured in a Francois Truffaut film represents the extinction of meaning and feelings.
All of this being said, I am getting a smart phone. It is a decision that I made with scrupulous consideration – and by scrupulous consideration, I mean desperation and hypocrisy.
Why, you ask, has it taken an inordinate amount of time to transition to a smart phone like the rest ofSub-Saharan Africa? I have been in possession of a simple flip phone for over a year – generously lent to me after I literally washed my previous device and failed to revive it even after frantically shaking it in a bag of brown rice.* Like most things that generally suck, I managed to find proverbial and literal silver linings such as:
- Never having anxiety about anyone stealing my phone – and feeling either greatly humored or worried about the status of mankind at the prospect of its theft.
Alas, endless discussions about pseudo Middle-Triassic reptiles have been significantly outweighed by:
- Eliciting laughter from someone in a bar after taking out my phone – a kind of laughter I have not heard since I was a little, puffy, otter-like adolescent changing for 7th grade PE.
- Having my co-workers hear every single letter I punch into the phone when I send a text message.
- Being forced to put a moratorium on the phrase, “That’s so 2008. And you’re so 2000 and late.”
- Wanting to express, via T-9, that something, someone, or some situation is “cool” only to send “book.”
- Not reaching a significant benchmark at the age of 25 – and that is hearing Ah-ha’s “Take On Me” in the morning as my alarm ringtone.
- Making the following flow-chart documenting the process that I must go through since losing the function of three buttons on my phone:
In January, I reached a milestone that, for many, is a cause for elation, despair, and the production of semi-racist television shows: I turned 25. Of course, on the day that I turned 25, my comprehension of the day’s significance was rather minimal – except that I had turned an age that was a multiple of five and, as we all know as fact, any number that is a multiple of five is vastly superior to multiples of two, three, or four.
Alas, I felt such a benchmark to be so trivial that I began to notate occasions that would justify the magnitude of this well-documented, important age. I have come up with five such occasions (this is intentional because, as we all know as fact, multiples of five are quite excellent) and have put them in very simple mathematical equations. The following are inequalities that prove that I have “come of age” – moments so poignant that they indicate my rise in maturation’s cruel, cruel echelon:
- Using the last five dollars in your possession to purchase beer. < Using the last five dollars in your possession to purchase tampons.
- Sleeping on a bed with pillow cases of a solid color – a deep, almost brooding violet that supposedly* reflects my disposition on life. > Sleeping on a bed with pillow cases containing cartoon monkeys swinging through a vaguely Hawaiian backdrop as they clutch coconuts – a pattern that supposedly reflects my penchant for…cartoon monkeys swinging through a vaguely Hawaiian backdrop as they clutch coconuts.
- Wearing a prom dress to a wedding you are attending. < Wearing a Bridesmaid dress from a wedding to a prom that you are chaperoning.
- Sipping a “Natural” Light in the basement of a dilapidated row house that smells distinctly of urine, marijuana, and assorted Kraft products as I ironically berate over-privileged, private college educated students. < Sipping a Tecate at a dive bar that smells distinctly of urine, marijuana, and locally, organically grown onions as I ironically berate hipsters in a pair of jeans that are, like, really, really (dangerously) tight.
*Editor’s Note: ”Supposedly” means “absolutely not”.
As I sat on the bus this morning, I came to the conclusion that I must chase after my girlhood dream of publishing a book – namely a premature memoir that will bring revolutionary wisdom unto the world. It will extrapolate heavy philosophical and near-Biblical revelations from the stories of my formative years. It will relay insights so profound in publication that, inevitably, I will be considered a viable GOP presidential candidate among other positions of negligible political power (i.e. City Comptroller). It will elucidate, it will expound, it will launch my seventeen day marriage to the Heiress of the La Quinta fortune.
Ergo, I have begun the production of said book the way that most pieces of classic, canonical literature have been conceived: By writing a series of possible titles and choosing a cream color pallette as the backdrop of the cover. Mmmm, Cornsilk.
- Choosing laundry over sex: A lifetime of counterintuitive productivity and neatly folded underwear.
- Eating exceptionally crunchy saltines during a particularly intense meeting: A memoir.
- Grab somebody sexy, tell them hey: Vicarious dreams for my children, as told by major recording artist, Pitbull. And a few puns!
- If the crotch of your sweatpants feels particularly restricting, indeed they are on backwards:Elucidations from a Sunday morning.
- Collisions with colleagues as you cradle a decadent Spongbob Square Pants Piñata in public: On character building and alliteration.
- Sea otters: Marine mammal friend, grade-school resemblance foe. How to rear your children away from gawkiness and toward social success!