Matt Versus His Cell Phone....or, Bury My Ears Under My Wounded Mobile Device

There's a sickness in the air, floating above the clouds and dripping its negative stimulants atop our heads on a second-by-second basis. The way it seeps into the mind is quite clever, really. Whoever the creator above is deserves some sort of Unholy Relationship Destroyer prize or something, because his/her potion has caused thick layers of friction between myself and many friends who I've shown firsthand symptoms to, unceremoniously.

I wish I knew when exactly I first caught the germ. If even a roughly-estimated date were available, perhaps I could retrace the steps that fate pointed me toward and remedy myself. It's not a disease I'm partial to in any way, shape, or form. But, still, one I've never been able to shake off. Even when I'm fully aware that its getting the best of my better judgment, I'm powerless. Stricken under submission. Tied down, stripped bare of any resolve, and under its spell. If this disease could take a physical form, it'd be a dominatrix who resembles Katy Perry (she's my current eye-pleasing fix), ordering me to carry out her dastardly plan, and using brutally physical force to both intimidate and overpower.

Oh, yeah, I should probably divulge what this disease is exactly, right? In ley-Matt's terms, its the sheer awfulness to which I handle "calling people back on my cell phone." I'm no dummy; I know that I'm far from alone. In fact, many of my own friends and associates are equally, if not more so, guilty. But I can't worry about their deteriorating relationships at the hands of this powerful affliction. It's a dog-eat-dog world out here, and in this respect I'm wearing milkbone underwear (cite to Norm from Cheers on that one). Looking out for self is priority.



I truly hope that those who've called me and expectedly met my voicemail more times than not don't take this shunning personal. It's quite the opposite. I'm under the impression that anybody who actually takes the time and effort to ring me up is worthy of respect and appreciation; why waste time out of their precious days to chat with little ol' me, you know?

The only explanation I can offer in my defense here is the following---I'm a pretty moody person. Not in the sense of bipolar tendencies, or apt-to-go-Bruce-Banner-on-a-bitch ways. Rather, I largely operate according to where my head's at during any given moment. If something is stressing me out or requires immediate dissection within my ever-churning cabeza, then I must tend to it right away, and any phone conversation, whether crucial or small-talky, would distract. And then there's the frequent instance when I'm just not in a particularly social mood, and again it's nothing personal to whomever feels the brunt of my cold-shoulder.

I understand, trust me. Friendships and other close relationships are two-way streets, sure. But they're roads that are best navigated with any self-centered detours blocked, cleared out of the way like a ten-car pileup on the highway during rush hour gridlock hell. So for me to only answer when I feel up to talking is complete bullshit. Grounds for angry chums and compadres. But it's the truth, dammit. Take it or shake it.

I need a drug. One that'll slowly but surely rid me of this "terrible cell phone user" disease. I've actually lost a few tight bonds as a result, to which I'm seriously ashamed. With others, I've pissed off. Let down. Saddened. Infuriated. Left indifferent after repeat offenses. To those who've stuck by me despite this problem, I salute and embrace you more than you'll ever know. Two Blackberrys up.



"Knowing is half the battle," Hallmark or some other inevitable-cliche-birthing wise-person once said. The war rages on, but at least I'm an active combatant. Firing tireless shots at the opposition.

It's M.B. vs. Himself. One dude's very own Civil War. In matters of the romantic and/or instantly-sexually-gratifying variety, the South side's pistol-packing regime always reigns supreme. For all others, however, the North side's braintrust has the edge.

"The Battle of the Cellular" has been christened with its own nifty play-off-words nickname: The Call of Duty. I'm enlisted. Hammers cocked. Let's rock.