It's hard for me to believe my cell phone increased my productivity as much as I tried to fool myself into believing it would when I was trying to justify the pricetag. Sure, it's got a touch keypad as well as a physical keyboard. Any kindergarten apple counter will tell you I'll be able to type twice as fast as normal.
What I didn't count was all the free shit I would download, turning my phone into a hole into which I chucked every spare second. Any game I enjoyed during my stint on this miserable earth could be had in a matter of seconds if you could rhyme or describe it in monosyllables.
Such classics as PIE SHAPED YELLOW MONSTER WHO EATS GHOSTS, CRABBLE, and Russian puzzle game MOVING BLOCK SHAPES killed my phone's memory faster than a tequila bender. Likewise exterminated were most friendships, unable to tolerate my eyes wandering to the device in my hand like it was a ginormous pair of silicone knockers.
My ex-employer would tell you it was this developing addiction that got me fired (Though I bet it was him catching his daughter masturbating to pictures of me playing on the company softball team. Only a court-ordered cease and desist will clear that discrepancy.)
Still find myself staring at the screen during red lights despite the anti-text laws. I know a targeting law when I see one, and I haven't been under 21 in more years than I'll admit to a naive college freshman. For some reason, reading a dialogue between dimwitted Maine housewives about their kids' messy rooms or an urgent email about my dwindling erection seems worth the potential $100 fine.
I'm sure I'll be able to afford it once all the bullshit I write on my phone at the gym pays off. Until then, find another arc trainer, stupid.
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