I am my fucking khakis. But

You are NOT your cell phone. Don’t get me wrong, I love to have the newest technology at all times, but don’t ever let your cell phone overshadow who you are, PLEASE. To be honest, I would rather have the cell phone from the late 90’s that is absolutely massive and had an antenna that reached the stratosphere. Now that, would be cool. Imagine the belt holder for that one! And while we are on the subject, I know it has been said multiple times before, but just let me reiterate: your cell phone is not an accessory. So please, please oh please, stop wearing it on your hip and learning how to “quick draw” it. It does not make you cool, you are not a gun fighter from the wild wild west.

I have plenty to say about cell phones, so kick back, take off your shoes, stay a while.

Why do you avoid answering your phone if you don’t know the number? Do you think you are that important? If you were, you wouldn’t have to be answering any of your calls in the first place, you would have what most call a “personal assistant” because it sounds way better than secretary. Fuck being politically correct, he or she is simply your bitch (ironic how I type he first even though that market is over 90% female, especially after that last sentence). You are not important. You might be slightly important, not that important. Chances are you are lucky enough to even have someone calling you in the first place, why ignore it and then sit around and wait for another phone call? You have no life, you have no purpose, you should be jumping at that phone every time it lights up and plays whatever trendy tune you just paid $8 for, loser. You don’t run your cell phone, it runs you. If you didn’t want to be contacted you should just stick to the land lines and pay phones. Otherwise, answer the damn thing. Then you get the response “well if it is important, they will leave a message”. First I smack the person with the terrible grammar, you don’t say they when you’re talking about a singular person, but I digress. Think about the time wasted from that person calling, to listening to your stupid voicemail message that is either cutesy or too professional for your weed smoking ass or has some shitty song in the background while you act gangster, followed by the time it takes them to tell you how pathetic you are for not answering in the first place, to you having to pick up the phone and dial in to check your voicemail, fumbling around with your 18 digit PIN cause you sure don’t want anyone checking Mom telling you that she cleaned your underwear, to finally, finally, figuring out who the hell called and what he or she wanted. Then you realize it was from a blocked number and you are shit out of luck. And they probably wanted to give you concert or sporting event tickets or were horny and now you are beat. Talk about the shame. All because you wanted to hear your new tune play so you could look at it and pretend like you are too big to answer. Again, you are not, you are nobody. Pick up, because it might be me calling, and I fucking hate leaving messages. Thank you.