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“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.




The girl overwhelmed with desire to hibernate

My Cell Phone’s Photographic Journey Through 2011

It is January 27 and I still have yet to start any of my New Year’s Resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because I am too busy, which I often feel I am, but since I managed to devote 15 minutes today trying to learn how to finger whistle, and over an hour researching strange facts about cows, my argument is sort of beat to shit, for lack of a better term.

Therefore I have decided to restart 2012 on February 1. I’d like to commemorate 2011 and all its 13 months of glory, with a blog entry depicting its brilliance with photographs taken throughout the year. Since I can’t own an electronic without breaking it in a very dramatic and embarrassing fashion, my cell phone has been my primary photographic tool. Aside from countless pictures of my butt, in various pairs of pants, my cell phone is actually filled with some photographic gems. So I have decided to use a sampling of those and can only hope by the end of this read, family, friends, and internet bullies alike, will still find something endearing about me.

January  2011

My Old Cubicle

In 2011, my cubicle, like my existence, was a train wreck. While the Ansel Adams’ photography, saliva-scented water bottles, and countless piles of garbage may be only slight windows into my growing psychosis, the off-camera stacks of magazines, drawers filled with oatmeal, and affectionate snapshots of Bob Dylan pasted on pieces of construction paper outlined with heart doodles, show a young woman on the brink of “exhaustion” (I feel you Demi, I feel you).

(also) January 2011

My drawing of Bob Dylan

Umm…yeah, so…I was REALLY lonely in 2011. I know locking myself in my apartment, crying while drawing pictures of Bob Dylan didn’t add much to my social life, but its better than getting date raped at a Scranton bar.

February 2011

Sales Material for My Old Job

So I like, totally wrote this poem. I know. BE Jealous.

March 2011

Mah ve-hic-le gettin' effed up by a snow storm

Sometimes it snows in Pennsylvania…no big deal. Of course one might assume that if someone were to grow up in Pennsylvania, they would be adequately prepared to deal with this gigantic dump bird shit. However, I am not as bright as this blog so consistently implies, so I had to use a dustpan and an old Swiffer to dig my car out. It was so fetch.

So apparently nothing in life was worth photographing during

April 2011


May 2011

I know. Sad. Pathetic. You can feel sorry for me, I get it. I would too. Except I’m lying. I took lots of boring, unbloggable pictures during these months. So let’s just forget they ever existed, k?

June 2011

Wall painting at my Tennessee Apartment

I was quite the tortured artist in Tennessee. So tortured, I painted these sunflowers on my wall and drifted into a life of hard drugs and street hopscotch.

July 2011

Nashville Street Musician

This is one Bad Ass Motha-Fucka. Had he a beard, we probably would have been betrothed on the spot, and today I’d be found living under a bridge next to Willie Nelson.

August 2011

Private Office at my Tennessee Job

 I was like, so important. See that bag of carrot sticks sitting in front of the computer? All mine, baby. All mine. You can look but you can’t touch it. IF you touch it, I’ma start some drama.

And you don’t want NO drama.

No, no, Drama.

No, no, no, no, drama.

I hate the Black-Eyed Peas.

September 2011

Saliva of my Tennesse "boyfriend"

I lived in Tennessee for 4 1/2 months and for 8 weeks I dated a very nice gentleman, we’ll call him Andre. (In respect to “Andre” let me say, he was not as gay as this fictional name would imply. Far from it, if you catch my drift…this is getting weird) Anyway, one day in September Andre took me to a beautiful state park, a few hours into the Tennessee countryside, filled with beautiful waterfalls and vigorous hiking trails. Quite the panty-dropping experience. Or it would have been, had he not suffered several allergy attacks. Upon hiking to the bottom of a waterfall, Andre was overcome with a coughing/sneezing fit, and hacked up this lovely wad of saliva. Enthusiastically entertained by everything, I took a picture with my cell phone, much to the displeasure of Andre who had been trying to overcome his condition for hours to make the trip romantic. While he scoured the rock formations in search of the perfect heart-shaped stone to give me, I took pictures of his spit and made him help me clean up garbage people had left at the bottom of the waterfall. Is it any wonder why I am single?

September 2011

Toothpaste in my contact case!

One of the greatest mysteries of 2011 took place one September morning when I tried to put in my contacts. I walked to the bathroom like any other day, half-dressed and ready to defecate, when I decided to put in my contacts first. I opened the case, anxious to regain my man-made vision, when I saw what appeared to be two globs of toothpaste in lieu of my contacts. I was perplexed. My roommate was gone for the weekend and I had spent the night alone, leaving no room for foul-play. Utilizing the safety precautions learned in high school Chemistry, I jammed my fingers into the unknown substance, anxious to determine what it was. The gritty texture did not feel like toothpaste, nor did it smell like anything that could reduce bad breath. After much deliberation, I decided that my contacts somehow disintegrated overnight, turning back into their liquid form, which is evidently, toothpaste-colored gobbledygook.

September 2011

Everything that's wrong with America...or something less dramatic

During one of my bi-weekly grocery trips, I spotted this painfully obnoxious vehicle. My first instinct was to throw a shopping cart through the window and run away screaming, but I decided taking a picture would be less illegal and unfortunately less awesome.

September 2011

Road Sign Outside of Nashville

So, apparently all I did in September was take really stupid pictures, of really stupid things. This is another. While living in Tennessee, my fictional ADD was in high gear. One afternoon I found myself aimlessly driving around the outskirts of Nashville and nearly flipped my car, (by calmly pulling over) when I saw this sign. The Band is probably my favorite band, and the song “Up On Cripple Creek” validates my existence.

October 2011

A fake tattoo that only made me look cool in the mirror and my imagination

Not only is this the 3rd reference to Bob Dylan made in this blog post; as the text of this fake tattoo is a Bob Dylan song title. But it is also quite possibly the lamest picture ever taken in this history of photographic technology. In October I was packing my belongings, readying myself to move back to Pennsylvania. Since I’m the most bad ass 23 year old alive, I thought it’d be totally bitchin’ to draw a fake tattoo on my arm with black liquid eye liner, then take a picture of it to commemorate how cool it was. I almost want to stuff myself in a locker, for this.

October 2011

Puppy Hate

Trying to make something love me, that doesn’t, is the tagline of my life. Exhibit A, taking a picture with Molly as she violently squirms out of my arms, desperate to free herself from my overbearing grip. And I had only been home for three days. Where is the love?

…The love

…The love

I still hate the Black-Eyed Peas

November 2011

Meal the fridge...yeah

Right next to the organic orange juice, a brown paper bag of meal worms. This is what happens when your mom is a high school biology teacher. Or a fisherman.

December 2011

This is my sister, isn't she pretty?

In December my stepmother had non-invasive brain surgery that required her head to be restrained with this mask, which highly resembles a Medieval torture device. Needless to say, she was into it. So she showed us her mask and while my head was too fat and sassy to fit, my sister excitedly shoved her face into it, allowing for this Samsung moment.

Yes, my family has problems.

So that was all kinds of fun, huh? No? Screw you.

Bring on 2012…er…again!


The girl who learned today that the average cow produces 25 gallons of saliva each day, while simultaneously bringing sexy back.