When I was a kid, there were no cell phones. When I wanted to see if a friend was home, I’d ride my bike to their house. When I turned 16 I’d drive my truck and head on over. If they answered the door, they were home. If their mom answered the door, they prob weren’t home. My sweat equity wasted, but I didn’t fear or fret over time wasted. That’s how we did it in my day, before the phone trapped us to the power outlet and ruined our eyes and gave us headaches and forced us to spend thousands on ibuprofen to destroy our kidneys. Huge pros on venturing out on your own, like the Oregon Trail. Less dysentery, though. You never knew what would happen on a bike ride. Like the time the mailman almost ran my head over with his truck. Literally, I looked up and was staring at the front tire of a mail truck, my nose on the rubber. I can’t tell you how this happened. That’s the way the pendulum swings, my man.  We were on our way to the sandlot. Get in a game with some other kids. Had my hands full with my Easton bat bag. Couldn’t call ‘em ‘cause there was no google calendar to send an invite. Only guts and sweat and screaming “are you home, man!”

But these days, I need my phone. I’m just as bad as you. I can’t do anything without my telephone. Big poop after going to La Fiesta? Where’s my phone! At work on a tight deadline? What’s trending on Twitter! Oh, look, a dog in a raincoat! Aww. I can’t put the damn thing down. It’s like I need the injection of radiation from the antenna and the fucking eyestrain to slaughter my eyesight without a care in the world. A regard for absolutely nothing. Like that hillbilly neighbor of yours with a big ass dip of Red Man and an empty bottle of RC for a spit cup. That’s me, but with a cell phone.

Just the other day at work I was bored. No kidding! And I downloaded an ESPN Fantasy Baseball app and proceeded to complete a 2-hour draft with strangers from all over the world in the middle of my work day. I think fantasy sports are dumb, but low and behold I was in it like a doctor performing open heart surgery. I was cunning, focused, pure tunnel vision. I didn’t look up at my computer screen for hours just trying to figure the thing out. Kinda like when you’re driving home from work and watching This is Us on Hulu, crying, and suddenly you look up at the road and wonder how did I get here? My deadline was toast, my writing was garbage, and my boss was pissed at me. She said, “What happened?” I lied to her. I couldn’t tell her about my fantasy baseball team, so I blamed the art team for the mishap. “No shit, they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Idiots,” she said.

Some people would call me a phone addict. Experts would say the shoe fits. Lying, stealing (company time), and ruining relationships with others (I’m looking at you, art director, who flipped me off as I was going into the elevator) all point to an addict. You know the guy on TV, who says “you know me, I’m the addiction network,” who says drug and alcohol abuse is an epidemic, all the while no way in hell looks like a real doctor? The guy wears a damn stethoscope that I’m certain he knows no difference between that thing and his own ass. Like, you’re on meth, let’s get that heart rate. Can you stop itching? Yeah, he’d say I was an addict, but not once does he mention a phone as an epidemic. Could he cure me of constantly using Google Translate to curse out my co-workers in French and making garlic bread memes all day long like I’m on some sort of bender? Oh, look! A dog in a raincoat!