Hate It: Textual Harrassment

Ok, listen up all you fooligans out there in cellphone land. Let’s talk texting. Yeah you heard me. T-bombs. Specifically, late night T-bombs of the BC—booty call—variety. Now, like any red-blooded American bro, I’m not one to protest to crucial role that the iPhone, Blackberry or T-Mobile Sidekick plays in the facilitation of the occasional Thursday night tryst here in the 02138. But Ladies, ladies, listen to a man. Sometimes you’re hanging out just pongin’ in Mather, or kickin’ it old school with a Steel Reserve from Louie’s private stock, or hitting up the gym bench pressin’ like a bandit, (kicked it up to 90lbs this week, no big deal) and you get that text from a special someone we all know so well: “yoyoyo whut u up 2 :-).”

Now I know you’re saying

“dude go for it—she’s all up ons!” But hear me out. When you’re chilling in the bro-zone, the LAST thing you want is the added pressure of the coquetteishly ambiguous late-night text or in my case, the three or four that inevitably roll in as the evening matures. Yeah you know what I’m talkin’ about! It’s like, how do I respond to that? I got too many demands, ladiez, to spend my time navigating that mine-field of mixed signals. So what’s up? All I’m saying is that sometimes, you gotta give a guy some SPACE. Because this dog just won’t stay leashed to that celly, sister