Of phones and freedoms

I’ve had to say goodbye to two phones in the last six months, with Boyz II Men playing in my head, of course. I have maddest detachment issues, especially to inanimate objects. Maybe it’s because I feel like if the things that can’t move about or run away in my life are changing, there remains no hope for the living, breathing organisms that I dare to call humanity. Basically, I do not enjoy that terrible thing called change. I’m less than amateur at handling it – I’m alien. It is an alien concept. Or should be. (I lie here. Change is good. Or do we just say this as a way of dealing with the supposed inevitable? I could choose to pull a Michael Jackson and get into a hyperbaric chamber to reverse the aging process, thus reducing all possibility of change. Then I’ll buy an amusement park to match my ever-unwrinkling Botox enhanced features. But I digress.)

MOAOTL, my trusty Nokia, did not age with grace. Unlike Madam Berries, my flashy Motorola, who had the simple decency to succumb to a quick fall and split in half. MOAOTL dragged out his disease in a long, messy path, reminiscent of divorces and presidential speeches. The way I treated MOAOTL during his last days made me wonder about my distinct lack of patience with – well, everything, really. For instance, talking about him as if he were dead when he sits next to me on my bed, feebly but faithfully blinking out the arrival of a message. (Wow. I talk about my phones like they’re human. Anyway.) Beating him vigorously when he randomly decides to switch off. Formulating theories about how he is possessed by a demon when he begins to arbitrarily vibrate and use the flashlight (in the daytime), or decide he’s a TV set and show black lines across the screen while emitting a high-pitched squeal. (Ah, KBC memories.) Minus the pretty rainbow colors. I.e. not pretty. He does this thing where he’s jealous of my conversations so he just turns off in the middle of someone’s call. Fun times. (I see many of my friends going so THAT’S what happened.)

All in all, I wasn’t very patient during the DOA. (Death Of Appliance). Makes me wonder how patient I’ll be with age and aging around me. Will I be yelling at my dad, ‘WHY AREN’T YOU WORKING???!!!’ It’s a scary thought. And as for me? Will I be reduced to muttering on street corners about how I’m sure that building is just round the corner, I’ll just step into this alley to take the shortcut? *cue danger music* Yeah….very afraid.

I wish I could end everything when I wanted to. I’m too fearful of an irrelevant future filled with diapers and nursing homes, drooling and people who I can’t remember. Especially since I’m not planning to have children. This isn’t looking like the twilight years I wanted. Maybe that’s the solution. Find a vampire to keep me forever young…I want to be…forever young…

I’ve heard friends of mine say they have deals with God to end it at 60. Which, in my books, is not actually old. I have cousins that age. Maybe 85ish, 90. I mean, Mugabe is still running a country with his octogenarian mind. No one says he has to do it WELL. My question is this, though…how do they know God will deliver? Have they been bribing Gabe?

Well…I AM Kenyan. That could be a plan.

tSN

p.s. You know what’s also scary? Fish bones. They could be a definitely veritable weapon of…assassinry. Feed the guy you want to kill some fillet to lull him into a false sense of security…soak those really thin slivers of bone in arsenic…bingo…it’ll get right to The Bad Guy’s gum, and quickly to the bloodstream. And they won’t even find the bone until 3 days later (I never can) and by then the body will be disposed of. Just a thought.

The Mr. T. Chronicles: Chapter 4 – The End.

Contrary to popular belief, polar bears are indeed left-handed (hehe) and it really is quite easy to get a girlfriend. Yes! I would know because I have dated several. Psyche! I would know because I am a girl. I’ve checked. I’m sure.

To get a girlfriend, speak her language. Yes, it really is that simple. In many Black movies, this can also be translated as ‘treat her right’ (say it with the twang). This is not to be confused with spend oodles of money on her and go to every bridal shower she feels the need to drag you along to. This means find out what she likes and do it for her. It’s not too hard. She likes flowers? Buy her flowers. She likes walks on the beach? Buy a swimsuit (so as to walk on the beach). She likes Chinese food? Oooh, it would be really cute if you could learn how to cook it and make her some at home. Women claim to be complex, but they really aren’t. Just follow the patterns.

Because really, all a woman wants is to feel appreciated. (DISCLAIMER: I bet this is not true for all women. It has become apparent that all some women want is to be abused. Or play games. I know, I don’t get it either.) Be thoughtful. Once in a while. A girl’s earnestest lol desire is to be wooed by Prince Charming. These terribly high expectations, set by Disney, will cost you dearly in the long run before they settle back to reality. But reality can be cool too! Hehe. That Luther song is a sure formula. Buy me a rose, et al. Ok though flowers die. So they’re kinda pointless. But if that’s her kinda thing, hey...

If you like a girl, like her. Text her. Or Facebook her, whatever, if she doesn’t have the Nokia 1100. Communication – in her language. I.e. if she doesn’t like being texted, don’t. :o)

At 3:30 a.m. in the morning, I dragged Mr. T. onto his bed in his state of solid inebriation. He was still coherent – that may be the wrong word to use there – enough to mutter my name as I threw his bulk on his bed and tried to cover him with his Superman duvet. (DISCLAIMER: This is not true. He does not have a Superman duvet. But it’s my blog. I can make him look silly and have bad – sorry, abominable, taste in superheroes if I want to – AT THE SAME TIME. He. He.) As I was about to leave to meet Macha, my trusty cab guy, Mr. T. flung his arm around me and said ‘Please be my girlfriend.’

I was locked in a death grip with a madman. Fortunately for me, he then proceeded to pass out.

Surely, surely, I was worth more than a random drunk proposal? Surely I was above cartoon duvets and wayward, haphazard propositions? Surely I had not sunk this low?

I walked out. It’s never that serious.