Recently, I got severely inebriated only to discover the next day I could not find my cell phone. To reward myself for achieving such an extreme level of drunkenness, I went straight to my local wireless store and bought me a brand spanking new phone. Now it turns out my old phone wasn't lost, it was simply misplaced. However, I had my little hungover heart set on getting a new phone so that is where the story begins.
I had no idea what type of phone I wanted, but the kind, young sales gal showed me one that had a touch screen and came with a rebate and blah, blah, blah, sales pitch, blah, blah, blah: SOLD. Let's just get this over with so I can go home and sweat out these cocktails.
I love my new phone. It is awesome in so many ways. I have been sending a steadily increasing number of pointless text messages much to the horror of family and friends who could care less that I just got my car washed or that I can't find a pair of matching socks.
I want to make it abundantly clear just how much I adore my phone before I mention this next item for those of you considering buying a touch phone. You should ask yourself a question and be very, very honest with yourself. Do you have, ahem, "physically fit" fingers? Because up until now, I've always considered my fingers to fall within the national standard for normal size digits. Tapping away on my new phone, I feel a bit as if I have Chewbacca mitts. I'm not sure if Wookies have fingers or paws, but Chewie seems far more savvy at flying the Millenium Falcon than I am at checking my voicemail.
So the previously mentioned pointless texts aren't just dull and drab, they are often nonsensical and riddled with typos. Not to mention making sure that I send the text to the right person. I sent a text to my friend Michelle about Battlestar Galactica only to get a response from Michael reminding me that I am an uber-nerd. Nice.
Even better are the times I get a little tap-happy while deleting messages and I end up dialing that person on accident. So I hang up. Twice. Or three times. Leading to the inevitable incoming call from that party asking me why I am a being a jerkface. To which I can only reply, "God made me this way."
I love my phone and I have banana hands. Deal with it.