I have a silver Razr, and everyone always asks me what I think of it. I’m honest about it’s flaws- it freezes up, loses numbers, can’t hold a charge and sometimes getting it to power on in the morning is quite a battle. But I am madly in love with my phone.
Somehow, it knows exactly what I’m up to and sometimes will refuse to play along. For my own benefit.
I am, what you would call, a drunk dialer. Or, more accurately, a drunk texter. A few shots of 151 will have me spilling secrets I should take to the grave. Like tonight, for example.
I’d been sending some texts to this guy. Now, I know I have a crush on him. He knows I have a crush on him. However, it’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same way. And though I’m doing my best to pretend it doesn’t matter, it does. Getting messages from him completely makes my day, and seeing him on myspace makes me smile. I can’t stop from hurting when he doesn’t respond the way I wish he would. So I wrote up a very eloquent text message telling him that, because of this, I’m going to leave him be, and if he ever wants to get together, to let me know.
Otherwise, I won’t bother him again. I’m tired of feeling hurt when he breaks plans or doesn’t call.
And somehow knowing that my BAC was over the legal limit for operating a cell phone, my beloved Razr refused to send the message. I tried again.
“Unable to send.”
I tried again.
“Still unable to send, you dumbass. Why don’t you sober up and then try again.?”
So, in probably one of the wiser decisions I’ve made, I deleted the message. And my whole inbox/outbox/draft folders too. Just to be on the safe side.
And that, my friends, is why I love my Razr. Because sometimes, someone just has to take the keypad away. My Razr is my designated dialer. And it may mock me in the morning when I turn on the power, but it won’t let me make a fool of myself with intoxication as my only excuse.