There is something I need to admit. Word has started to get out, and I'd rather you heard the truth from me than from someone else.
I should probably start from the beginning.
Earlier in the week I had the pleasure of finally meeting one @JMWander in person. He of Pittsburgh Magazine fame is one of my writing idols, so I was pretty excited that he had agreed to stay in one place while I stalked him. I left a few minutes early for our meeting, which, if you know me, you know is sort of like The Jonas Brothers going to a strip club. It only happens in alternative universes.
It was a good thing I left early because traffic was . . . um . . . I can't really think of a description that doesn't require a whole lot of cussing. Let's just say that there's more moving and advancing and getting somewhere happening in the Heinz Field parking lot an hour before a Steelers game. It. was. awful. A drive that should have taken ten minutes took far, far longer.
As the clocked ticked and I sat not moving, I realized that I should give my writing idol a call. And that's when it struck me--I had his phone number, but not stored in my phone or written on a piece of paper. It sat out on the internet, mocking me because I couldn't get to it.
Yes, indeed, I don't have internet access on my phone. Nor do I have any sort of texting plan. If I want to send or receive a text? Ding! Pay 25 cents! While 25 cents per text can add up quick, I still can't say that there is a reason in the world for me to get a texting plan, which would be $5.
I'm not entirely sure why I even have a cell phone. I rarely use more than 60 minutes in a month.
It's true--I'm a communication device dinosaur.
Hand me the inkwell and vibrating pager, while I start the fire for the smoke signals. I have no need for your fancy smart phones and such.
Little Red. He's not much bigger than a PEZ dispenser, but he gets the job done. Or something.