Why I Don’t Answer My Phone, Ever
Posted by Moose on June 24th, 2006. Filed under: My Brain Needs a Drink.If I answered my phone, I would have to talk to people. I spend the same amount of time avoiding conversation as the dog spends licking the floor hoping for drops of maple syrup. Or small bugs. I like people. I just don’t always want to talk to them. I prefer to intuit their thoughts via facial expressions. When someone frowns in my general direction, I immediately question why they don’t like me anymore, and why, if they didn’t like me, did they choose to sit across from me on the bus? WHY? STOP HATING ME, YOU TWINKIE SNARFING DIRT BAG! When that person mutters “bitch” before scuttling down the aisle, I interpret the moniker to mean, “Your finely-tuned sensitivity gives you astonishing insight into the feelings of others. You’re dog-like in your astute intuition of human mood. Let me bow before you and your canine powers.”
I’m not a complete Luddite. I’m very fond of internet shopping. But I much prefer to communicate the cowardly way – over email. Or the drunken way – at a bar. If I answered my phone or, May Lightning Strike Me Through That Evil Device, ever made a call, I might actually be able to keep in touch with my friends far away. This would leave me with one less thing to complain about. If I keep ridding myself of things to complain about, I might one day be happy and content. Modern (wo)man is not supposed to be happy and content. If we were, we would revert to the days of soda fountains and poodle skirts, when everyone ate peaches and newspapers were blank, except for pictures of kittens.
The telephone is just another wretched American device, bent on battering the world into submission with our tasty corn syrup and morality-parched entertainment. Those who note that Alexander Graham Bell was born in Scotland will be ignored, as this line of reasoning does not fit my agenda. Besides, he emigrated to America before inventing anything more sophisticated than two tin cans with a string.
Answering my phone is really only for the convenience of the person who wants to speak to me. If you really want to talk to me, you’ll drive over and knock on my door so I can peer at you suspiciously from a darkened window. If I opt not to open the door, write a note and slip it in the mailbox. This is your only real hope of reaching me. Because I don’t always know who’s on the other end. I can’t really see you on my porch with the light turned off. You might not be who you say you are. Or you are, but you’re calling with malice aforethought. Looking to entrap me with your witty conversation, to coerce me into leaving the comfort of my dark bedroom to participate in the skewed values of this country.
If I answer my phone, the terrorists win.
No related posts.
July 21st, 2006 at 9:38 am
Amber:
I have been in bed (on vacation) catching up with your moosey blog. Moo. This is the first time I have really poured myself into it. I started with the most recent stuff, Happy B-day, and ended up here. A very good place to end indeed because it explains that whole “what the fuck is she thinking not answering her phone, when I am trekking across the Bay Area hours from my house for a goodbye visit to somebody who shall not be named and her?!!!” Luckily I now see it’s not personal, it’s intrapersonal…… Anyway here is also a good place to stop because I finally (after having got up to bring an oatmeal cookie back to bed) laughed out loud at your deep understanding of 50′s newspapers and the role of kittens. Fuck the terroists!