May 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
You’re at the movies waiting for The Avengers to start. The previews haven’t even come on yet. You sit there eating from the large bucket of popcorn that is meant for two. It’s halfway finished.
He is next to you. His fingers aren’t covered in salt or butter like yours. No. His thumbs are busy instead. Jabbing away at the tiny buttons of the 3 by 5 world that is his Blackberry.
You hate the Blackberry. The same damn Blackberry he’s on all the time. Messaging and looking, messaging and looking. He’s communicating on it constantly, making actual conversation impossible for anyone in a one-foot radius.
Why is he on it right now, you wonder? Does he even notice that you exist anymore? Does he even care that you’re alive? Or that you’re hot? Or cold? Or hungry? Or breathing?
No…he doesn’t notice you at all, you suppose. What he has noticed is someone else on some other axis of the online world. Someone funny. He chooses to continue talking with said funny person, because present person can’t possible make him react in the same sort of way.
“I could make you laugh if I wanted to!” you want to yell. “Or cry. Or get angry. Or feel sad. I can make you do it all because I’m human and I’m special. I have 206 bones in my body. I have eleven bodily systems and six senses, and sometimes I can sort of predict the future in my dreams. I pump blood without thinking, I process oxygen without trying, and I dance automatically to the song “Circus” upon hearing it because my body’s wired funny. Because I have a body that can be wired.”
Blackberries can be wired too, you suppose. But that’s not the point. The point is that you’re here. He’s there. And that stupid black machine is in his hand when he has a live human right next to him who’s watching….waiting for him to say or do something else. Waiting for something special.
And laughs. And laughs. And laughs and laughs and laughs.
He could have done anything else but that. Why did he have to laugh? Why did he have to affirm that, once again, the little black machine is better than you are? Yes, it possesses more trivia knowledge than you ever will. Yes, it can show a whole lot more of the world than you can, even with all of your Facebook albums combined. And yes, apparently it can make others laugh more than you can. Because it’s funny. The tiny little lifeless black machine is so damn funny. And you’re…well…not.
So maybe it can make people laugh. And maybe it can do things like wake them up with its alarm instead of doing what you do…oversleeping. And maybe it can provide them with a game to play instead of what you do…eating half of a jumbo-sized popcorn bucket before the start of a movie. And maybe it can conveniently send out all of your latest updates on Twitter instead doing what you do…wishing that Twitter never existed.
Whatever, you think. That little crap machine can ring, buzz, or vibrate all it wants. A thousand times a second maybe. But it can never give what you can give. You who pulsates with prana. You with your 206 bones and your eleven bodily systems. You with your spark, your energy, your vigor, your vim, your…
Laughter. It’s more of a stunted chortle this time, if anything.
That’s it! you think. He’s crossed the line. He’s pulled the final straw. He’s pissed you off to the point of no return.
You decide to take a stand even though you’re sitting. Like Rosa Parks minus the societal implications. You put down the popcorn. You rub the grease onto your pants. You reach out and snatch the tiny machine away from him.
“Hey!” he shouts, extending a muscular hand towards yours.
No, you think. He doesn’t get the pleasure of words when he’s been so unfaithful, gallivanting off into the World Wide Web with someone else right before your very eyes. As though you wouldn’t have noticed.
You lower the machine and you look at its screen. Finally you’re about to see what he was seeing. Finally you come to see…
It. The familiar color scheme. The photographs. The font and the words that you helped choose. The entries that you created. The display that you fashioned as you would your very own wardrobe.
You know exactly what it is, but you can’t help but look at him and ask in a harsh, accusatory tone, “What’s this?”
“I really like your blog,” he says.