For Fuck's Sake | Issue 12

For Fuck's Sake | Issue 12

Text Me With Your Best Shot

I mostly own a cellphone so that I can play Temple Run in class. (I dare you to beat my high score – I. Fucking. Dare. You.) However, I used to be one of those disgusting pre-teens who measured their self-worth based on how many text messages I could send each month. Nothing made me happier than that little blinking orange light on my Pinkalicious telling me I had received a message. I spent over $100 on polyphonic ringtones (“Don’t Phunk With My Heart” – obviously; “Hollaback Girl” – of course; “Beautiful Soul” – please and fucking thank you).

Although pre-teen me and actual me still share a love of Jesse McCartney, we now disagree about texting, because I am now sort of grown-up and have absolutely no desire to hear about all the banal shit going on in people’s lives. Either entertain me, or fuck off, ya know? I don’t like having to drag my attention away from whatever worthwhile thing I am doing (eating, sleeping, etc.) in order to read about how someone is not up to much right now and about their average day. We are all having average days. So why do we need to tell each other about it? I just hate the fact that people think they need to be in contact so constantly that they literally have nothing interesting to say to each other anymore.

The worst thing about texts is their lack of tone. There are so many ways in which this can bite you in the ass.

1. You make a super funny sarcastic joke, but the genius of it is lost in translation and suddenly whoever you are texting thinks you actually do have lucid dreams about anal sex with Aaron Gilmore.

2. You have a freakout because someone sends a message with a full stop at the end, which obviously means that they are mad at you and think you’re a terrible person.

3. You put an “x” at the end of a message a little bit too soon in a relationship, then panic about whether they are going to “x” you back. These days, the person I text the most is my mum because she will always “x” me back.

For the above reasons, it makes me laugh when people get a text message and say something like, “Holy shit, someone loves me!” or, “Oh my God, I’m popular!” What? Someone wiggled their thumb around a little screen for you. Big fucking deal. You aren’t popular. You’re a disaster.
This article first appeared in Issue 12, 2013.
Posted 1:24pm Sunday 19th May 2013 by Elsie Stone.