shame on me
I hate you. Don’t read this. Hate yourself. You’re still reading. This contempt will only be amplified exponentially if you’re reading this on your phone/camera/music player/internet device/water cooler conversation piece. Look at yourself. You’re clinging to it like a block of Afghanistan’s finest black tar junkie juice. For fuck’s sake, don’t drop it.
These diminutive turds have ransacked every imaginable public place of it’s social grace. This is awkward, but I even yearn for what was once awkward. Nearly gone are the days of no talk, shifty eyes, shuffling feet, and pocketed hands while standing in queue for the next caffeinated injection topped with caramel and the non-dairy whipped topping. (because you’re a schmuck and you know it) Just take out your iPhone, open iTunes, plug in your iEarbuds, and iSuck!
Even the Wall Street ticker tape twits, perhaps some of most prominent pioneers to don a Zack Morris, (think of the colossal brick on the hip) have sauntered into the realm of business/casual. What once made you one of them now qualifies you as one of us.
This is our own (un)doing. If you must, call me sometime. Let’s at least try for some good old-fashioned voice on voice action. I know you blew a bulk of your paycheck on the finer things in life, such as unlimited minutes/text messaging and 3G connectivity, leaving little to put into your gas tank. So now there’s no hope for you to knock on my door. Colon open parantheses. Oh, and on the off chance that I sent you a text between midnight and morning, I wanted sex but didn’t want to put forth the effort. Sorry about that. It won’t happen again, (read:for a few weeks) as I have run out of texts for the month.
