I joined the 21st Century a few months ago and bought a smart phone. No it wasn’t peer pressure, or my Bejeweled Blitz addiction, or even a yearning to snap photos of my every meal (guess what THIS will look like in 24 hours?). I bought the phone so I could organize my life. With two hyperactive kids and a wife just starting a PhD program, I realized that the time I need to write, work, attend literary functions, hang out with my cronies, and be a somewhat functioning husband and father was about to be seriously curtailed. Coordinating schedules would be essential.
And for the first little while, the phone was pretty cool. I could access my calendars, check the Arsenal scores, the weather, the time in Vladivostok and, best of all, text the important people in my life. It was cool, it was fun, it was liberating. But then, somehow, it became annoying. Incredibly annoying.
I’ve known for ages that I am a natural introvert – as opposed to those sad posers who just want people to think they spend their waking hours brooding over life’s mysteries when in fact they’re simply pondering Jack Harkness’s bizarrely perfect teeth… Er, what was I on about? oh right. Introversion. I like space and quiet and people who tell me straight up what they’re thinking.
None of those things are compatible with texting.