“Sorry! I Meant That For My Bookie”

I’m not big on texting.  It’s my least favorite form of communication.  I do my best to use it only for quickie notifications and the occasional confirmation of something like… “on my way” or “meet me in elevator in 5 [wink]”.  Maybe it’s because I fear we’re becoming a society of weirdly reclusive souls who, although more connected than ever, don’t have to  change out of their jammies or leave the house to feel a part of the global conversation. There is something oddly macabre about that.  Like I’m witnessing a paradigm shift in the evolution of humanity.  Think about it….we were once writhing, squishy, amoebas that somehow found the wherewithal to band together, grow legs and brains and become the bipedal wonders we are today [unless you’re one of the folks who started the Creation Museum and believe a god-like deity placed us here as fully formed humans who had dinosaurs as pets]. Who’s to say we’re not slowly morphing into fleshy little machines with one pointy digit for pecking and a language made up of clicks and beeps that have only one letter sounds?

Rise up, people!  Rise up and resist this stealthy metamorphosis!!


Back to the subject at hand which is gambling….I mean texting.

Call me crazy, but I still want to hear the sound of voices and see other humans face to face once in a while.  It motivates me to shower and get botox and get my nails done, not to mention fundamentally avoiding confusion.  For me, texting is a recipe for I’ll call a What-The-Fuck? Situation. Or in text speak: a WTF Sitch.

To illustrate:

I have a friend who is an avid text-er.  For her, it’s efficient since she is also a profuse multi-tasker.  Holding the iPhone and texting allows her to communicate while flitting from room to room with a rag attached to her feet that polishes the hardwood floor and in turn  allows simultaneous operation of her hands-free make-up applicator that she activates by blowing into a tube.

Yesterday, we were having a text conversation about the apocalyptic meltdown of her e-mail system, the dinner menu of an upcoming birthday party and the shocking changes to global weather patterns and this pops up:

“Okay, I’ll take both for 500”

“What?  I thought we were talking about lobster bisque and the jet stream!?” I replied.

“Sorry! I meant that for my bookie”

I rest my case.