Jon, I’m sorry I didn’t respond earlier to your text about whether I’d heard the new Sinéad O’Connor song. I’m sorry I didn’t respond to the four texts you sent after that, either. I should have; I know I’m a bad friend. But we’re pretty close, you and I, so I need to address a topic for you and everyone else who cares about keeping in touch with me. And that topic is: Please never text me.
I have a terrible, shitty smartphone. I know, I know, I should get a new one. Do you know how terrible and shitty my smartphone is? If I had even a half-decent smartphone, I would have been able to take screenshots of your texts for this post, instead of taking a picture of the whole phone in my hand using my computer. I don’t have a half-decent smartphone, though; I have a terribly, shitty phone. I’m not even comfortable calling it a smartphone, except for pure taxonomical purposes.
So I hate having a conversation on it. It takes for-fucking-ever just for the keyboard to come up sometimes, and also my reception is worse at my house than anywhere else in Madison, so even after the keyboard comes up, it also sometimes takes for-fucking-ever for the message to actually send.
But you know, even back when I had a half-decent smartphone, I hated text conversations. Because I have to pick up an entirely separate device (i.e., my phone) to have them. I spent nearly all day in front of my computer. It’s sad, it’s really sad. But it’s true. And I often work from home, so sometimes I don’t even bring my phone into my kitchen/office when I’m working; I just leave it in the bedroom, plugged in. If someone really needs me, they can email or use my beloved landline, which I prefer for phone calls because of (1) the reception thing and (2) its ergonomical superiority.
I miss texts all the goddamn time. I mean, I eventually see them, but sometimes it’s already the next day. I didn’t see your text for hours, Jon. And I’m not going to change. I’m already chained to one piece of digital machinery. I will not be darting back and forth between two. Especially when one is shitty and terrible.
If you need to get in touch with me outside of purely practical information (addresses, phone numbers, what time you’ll be somewhere, you need my underwear size because you’re buying me bespoke underwear), please, Jon — and everyone else, too — please just email me. Please never text.
I enjoyed the Sinéad O’Connor song. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I hope you and Stephanie and the cat and your prospective child are doing well.