I never thought I'd say this – not even for two and a half seconds – but I hate my phone.
I can't throw it away, because, well, that would just be a dumb thing to do.
It's the most demanding piece of equipment ever, and not in a good way. Why? Because lately, it only ever wants something from me. It demands my immediate attention and my immediate response.
Either it's one of the six banks asking me if I want a credit card, the cycle lab reminding me about cycle races I am too unfit to do, or people asking me for shit. Always asking me for shit; always wanting something.
The last time I got an sms I didn't need to reply to was back in, like, 2004.
Can you check this? Do you have a number for me? Are you free tonight? Where're we meeting? Who did you snog last weekend? Can I borrow this? Why you so quiet? Are you going to Trevor's party? ARE YOU AVAILABLE? Feed me, feed me now.
To all these questions: No; don't feel like looking for it; no; don't know; can't remember I was too fucked; no; because I am; possibly; no I'm too busy making cartoons.
Text messages I like (in the rare case you have my number):
You don't need to reply to this, but I love you, you are beautiful and amazing;
You don't need to reply to this, but I'll meet you at the bar counter with a tequila ready and waiting for you;
You don't need to reply to this, but I bought you a present from overseas, and I'll deliver it once I get it through customs;
You don't need to reply to this, but I'd like to take you from behind, love Jake Gyllenhaal;
You don't need to reply to this, but you're the best friend ever;
You don't need to reply to this, but good work on Project Impossible, we got the deal;
You don't need to reply to this, but you've won $100 million, which we are depositing into your bank account this very second;
You don't need to reply to this, but we're going to the Seychelles in September for ten days, love your ever-suffering mother who thinks you're the most amazing child to ever be conceived.
Caveat. The last text is true. Bar the eternally-suffering-you're-a-child-prodigy part.
My mum is organising for us and our entire French side of the family to go to the Seychelles in September for a petit reunion de la famille.
Bring it the fuck on. Isn't my mum the shiznik? She may have just saved me from going completely insane after all.
PS: And to the company text spamming me that I've won an inflatable mattress,a Verimark food processor and a set of hairdryers (honest to God), no. No. No. No. And no again.
PPS: And no again.