“Me and My Tit Arm”: A Story of Cell Phone Abuse

So I’m thinking I might detonate my cell phone. Every time I wear clothing without pockets and realize I have nowhere to put my cell phone, I feel incredibly unsettled with my person hood. As if I grew a third arm between my tits that I suddenly have to find a way to manage. That’s how I feel when I have a cell phone and no pockets. Like I have an arm between my tits. Awkward, lumpy, displaced. I end up thinking to myself, “why don’t I just cut off this tit arm? It’s ugly and a liability while driving. No one needs this kind of tit arm upset in their life!” I think it. I acknowledge it. Yet each night, when I go to bed I have to be careful not to crush my tit arm.

But even on my most pocketed of days, I often find myself wondering how much happier I would be without a cell phone. A cell phone is a stress-inducing parasite. It is an obnoxious, embarrassing, unpredictable force residing deep within our pockets, like a Fran Drescher gnome, always waiting to explode into a fit of noise so unbearable we have no choice but to interrupt all other activities to make it stop. And after minimal conditioning where we accept the presence of “the nanny in our pants” we become obsessed with it. We hear phantom ringtones, feel phantom vibrations, checking our cell phones whenever we go more than 30 minutes without receiving a call or text. “Maybe it’s malfunctioning? Maybe I don’t have good service. Oh, wait it’s probably just on silent!”

Because what are cell phones aside from the constant reminder that yes, we are connected with the world and no, no one in the world cares? When you have a cell phone, you are available all day every day. So when you go a few hours without receiving a phone call or a text message you start to evaluate your worth as a human being and long-term relevance to the universe. It’s only natural. If you were sitting in a room with another person and that other person wasn’t talking to you, you’d be offended. Same goes with cell phones. If you know someone has the ability to talk to you but is choosing not to, it starts to diminish your feelings of self-importance. Because the (very) unfortunate truth is that cell phones are the umbilical cord between insecure people and the rest of the world, constantly feeding the need for love and attention by allowing meaningless interaction with others, while ironically, diminishing the actual connection between those very people.

Text messages are the worst. Particularly in romance.

Text messages are like the one night stands of communication. They are quick, easy, and allow two people to maintain some sort of “relationship” without ever having to actually speak to one another. They require such a minimal level of effort, that even someone you would not otherwise maintain any type of communication with, can suddenly become your soul mate. It increases the quantity of contact, but diminishes the quality. As the saying goes “picture messages of baby squirrels playing in a courtyard, does not a relationship make.”

But then you have the flipside where it is undeniable that texting is easy and convenient. Everyone knows this. Therefore when you are not receiving a text from someone, you can’t help but assume they don’t care to talk to you. Text messaging not only increases expectation, but it actually creates expectation where expectations otherwise wouldn’t exist.

This is one of many miniscule problems in my life along with maintaining a weekly budget and trying to decide which side of the Q-tip I should use first. It’s not a real problem. I don’t need advice on how to handle it. I know what I need to do.

If I ever want a legitimate relationship, with a real live voice on the other end of the phone, I need to stop high-fiving my tit arm and accept the fact that feeding into the trends of modern communication never helped anyone.

Not even Roosevelt.

 

 

Love,

The girl overwhelmed with desire to hibernate

About thegirlwiththeblog

At any given time I can be found moisturizing my elbows and searching for words that rhyme with orange.

Posted on May 18, 2012, in life lessons I never wanted to learn, pop culture and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. I wish I had boobs for mobile phone storage. Perhaps I missed the point of your post…

  2. Careful there sister, you’re starting to sound like me with the anti-technology rant…

  3. I just spent a cellphoneless week and it ruled.

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