When short and sweet, a phone call can set you on the path to a great
day. It can infuse your soul with wonderful feelings and make you want
to hug somebody. But when it’s long and winding, and boring to boot, a
phone call can make you wish a catastrophe upon your caller so that they
can shut up and attend to something that isn’t you.
I’ve found the above to be true in every situation apart from courtship. Somehow, when you like somebody, your hatred of unnecessarily winding conversations vanishes. It’s no longer irritating to have to keep your hand against your ear for hours, like some kind of moron. You even begin to take advantage of those call packages that our telecoms, against all evidence, advertise as “free”. You jump with delight every time your phone vibrates and donate hours of your life to cloyingly sweet talk and embarrassingly earnest flirting.
Now that I have properly bagged my fellow, my hatred of phone calls has returned and has brought with it a hatred of the phones themselves. No matter how organized you are, your phone will never be in the pocket of your handbag that you remember placing it in. If you keep it in your pocket, it will vibrate and startle you into screaming at inappropriate times.
Phones, it would seem, are clairvoyant and only use their powers for evil and never for good. Your phone can tell that on a given day, you’re going to receive many important (and hopefully short) calls. It then craftily crawls under your pillow, bed or table and remains very quiet until you’ve left the house. And then every time somebody rings and and bounces, it transforms into a miniature robot and does a happy shuffle.
How unfortunate that a person’s reliability is nowadays measured by the regularity with which they can be reached on phone. For God’s sake. What if the phone is one of those bulky, smart types? Are you expected to carry that brick around all the time? First see this tweet by Twino Kwesiga. @MR_TWINO: Does the Samsung SIII feel good on my ass? Will it make me more attractive? Will it fondle? I want fondling. If not fail.
Ahahahahaha.
How about if you’re sick and resting? Are you still required to pick up when intrusive workmates call to inquire how you are? I can’t stress how much I hate it when this particular dude from office does it. He always has me wishing I could stab his ear through the mouthpiece using a porridge encrusted spoon.
Ever since my mom passed on last September, my hatred of phone calls has become overwhelmingly intense. Worst are the unexpected ones from family. Whenever I find a missed call or a message that seems cryptic, my mind starts to ache. What if they have bad news? What if somebody is sick and dying? My mind runs around in circles and eventually collapses in a pool of it’s own frustration.
Phones irritate and alarm me and I hate them, but I’m going to spend a fat quarter of my salary on a smart one. Why? Jogging apps. I want to download an app that will coax, challenge and heckle me into running faster for a longer time. Something like Zombie Run. If Charlie Brooker of all people is doing it and getting fit, I want in. Phones otherwise are useless and we need to return to sending telegrams.
I’ve found the above to be true in every situation apart from courtship. Somehow, when you like somebody, your hatred of unnecessarily winding conversations vanishes. It’s no longer irritating to have to keep your hand against your ear for hours, like some kind of moron. You even begin to take advantage of those call packages that our telecoms, against all evidence, advertise as “free”. You jump with delight every time your phone vibrates and donate hours of your life to cloyingly sweet talk and embarrassingly earnest flirting.
Now that I have properly bagged my fellow, my hatred of phone calls has returned and has brought with it a hatred of the phones themselves. No matter how organized you are, your phone will never be in the pocket of your handbag that you remember placing it in. If you keep it in your pocket, it will vibrate and startle you into screaming at inappropriate times.
Phones, it would seem, are clairvoyant and only use their powers for evil and never for good. Your phone can tell that on a given day, you’re going to receive many important (and hopefully short) calls. It then craftily crawls under your pillow, bed or table and remains very quiet until you’ve left the house. And then every time somebody rings and and bounces, it transforms into a miniature robot and does a happy shuffle.
How unfortunate that a person’s reliability is nowadays measured by the regularity with which they can be reached on phone. For God’s sake. What if the phone is one of those bulky, smart types? Are you expected to carry that brick around all the time? First see this tweet by Twino Kwesiga.
Ahahahahaha.
How about if you’re sick and resting? Are you still required to pick up when intrusive workmates call to inquire how you are? I can’t stress how much I hate it when this particular dude from office does it. He always has me wishing I could stab his ear through the mouthpiece using a porridge encrusted spoon.
Ever since my mom passed on last September, my hatred of phone calls has become overwhelmingly intense. Worst are the unexpected ones from family. Whenever I find a missed call or a message that seems cryptic, my mind starts to ache. What if they have bad news? What if somebody is sick and dying? My mind runs around in circles and eventually collapses in a pool of it’s own frustration.
Phones irritate and alarm me and I hate them, but I’m going to spend a fat quarter of my salary on a smart one. Why? Jogging apps. I want to download an app that will coax, challenge and heckle me into running faster for a longer time. Something like Zombie Run. If Charlie Brooker of all people is doing it and getting fit, I want in. Phones otherwise are useless and we need to return to sending telegrams.
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