Tete-a-tetetelephone

Infernal device.

A couple of blog friends who I chat with occasionally (you know who you are, bitchez) once asked me for my cell number.

I had to decline.

It wasn't a rejection or a rebuff, not at all. I could always use a new friend, considering the few remaining ones I have are either flirting with death, already in its cold embrace (read: married), or trying to sell me overpriced things I neither want nor need.

Thing is - as all my friends know - there's a little problem.


I hate texting.


When I'm not spinning off my axis at work, I like to spend my free time masturbating. The urgent beep beep of a cell phone signaling a text naturally interrupts this favorite pastime of mine. Moreover, it would require that I remove my left hand from tweaking my nipple, or worse, release the family jewels from the comforting grasp of my right.

And more often than not, my reward for this herculean effort would be to behold a message that says :



 "Musta na?"



I'm confident my blog friends (you know who you are, bitchez) didn't take it personally. I don't believe I've ever concealed the fact that I am a grouch, especially while I am working - which is like, 18 hours of the day on average. So, chances are any social texts would come in at a bad time. Even while I am sleeping would be an especially bad time. You'd have more chances winning the Lotto than your text catching me at a good time.

And, as my real-life friends so keenly know, if it's really something important or urgent (like, if they're dying or something close to it) then they should be calling, not texting. Even then, I'd probably snap that they should be calling God, not me. The only calls I don't pick up are from unknown numbers, my ex-bff, and Citibank.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: while cell phones are certainly useful communication devices, their very ubiquity and indispensability in this wired and increasingly-wireless world turn them into veritable tracking devices. If I wanted to be reached at any given time, I'd have had a microchip implanted under my skin, thank you very much.


Not that I don't like you, I'm just kinda busy.
And I am sick and tired of my phone b-beepin'
Sometimes I feel like I live in Grand Central Station
And I cannot be texting back, 'coz I am busy.

Sorry, I cannot text you back, I'm kinda busy.


K-kinda busy.
K-kinda busy.


Sorry, I cannot text you back, I'm kinda busy.

I'll just see you in chat, cat.