i miss my motherfucking flip phone. wasn't life so much goddamned simpler when you only had to worry about 160 probably-misspelled characters and grainy, pixelated barely-recognizable genitalia? keeping up with the new shit on my phone is a full-time fucking job. every time i download a new operating system i'm as helpless as your grandma, pressing every single tiny button while squinting at the screen trying to get one lousy motherfucking call to connect. i spent seven real minutes trying to send a picture of this gross patch of discolored flesh on my side jibs to one of my doctorfriends the other night only to have the shit not go through because some jerkbag i haven't thought about since the bush administration tore himself away from call of duty long enough to try to casually ask me "watz up" accompanied by one of those headless lifting-up-my-undershirt-to-show-you-my-abs-like-a-ginuwine-circa-1999-album-cover photos he'd obviously taken in the locker room at planet fitness. and this is the problem with missing your old nokia and not changing your number every time you end a relationship: ASSHOLES YOU HATE CAN STILL TEXT YOU.
technology is why you either have to move the fuck to china or kill anyone who dumps you, because no one ever just goes the fuck away anymore. remember in the olden days when a bitch would stop calling and your ass just burned her shit in the dumpster behind your house and moved the fuck on? even in these marvelous times if you stop fucking me, I AM UNFOLLOWING YOUR TWITTER, B. we ain't gotta talk, my guy, just throw that travel toothbrush i bought at the gas station at 3am in the trash and delete all those eggplant emojis i sent you then never waste a single one of my anytime minutes ever fucking again.
the best dick shot i've ever received was from a dude who stretched out his flaccid wang while he was taking a dump and took a picture of it then sent it to me at two in the afternoon, totally unsolicited. i was just minding my fucking business checking my phone on the bus when my screen filled with the slick, glistening, taco meat-sprinkled lower quadrant of the belly of a beast so monstrous it was sweating while evacuating its bowels, an uncircumsized penis stretched to an impressive five and three-quarters inches, and the bunched up track pants and athlete's foot covered toes of a man too old to still be wearing adidas shower shoes in real fucking life. romance is alive and well, sweethearts.
so i get a text the other day from a number i'd already deleted that was like, "yo, sam. you been on my bird lately. send me a pic and show me what i've been missing." first of all, kill yourself. second, do you really expect me to push this cat off my lap and empty the crumbs from the trader joe's pastry pups that have settled in my bosom over the trash can and put some lipstick on just to take a picture of the same haggard face you grew tired of looking at five yea--OH OKAY FINE I'M BORED AND THIS EPISODE OF MY CAT FROM HELL IS A RERUN ANYWAY.
here's how i work my selfie magic: first you gotta make everyone at your job think you're just going to take a really huge shit. my apartment is the size of your average prison cell, and standing in my bathtub with one elbow in the toilet bowl and the other on the ceiling fan doesn't really fucking work for me. so now i only take selfies in the spacious handicapped bathroom at work, because there's never any toothpaste on the mirror and the lighting is hella good. seriously, sometimes i ain't even gotta filter the shit out of my pictures. HOORAY FOR RECESSED LIGHTING. but here's the thing: when bitches know you are punched in and they've already looked for your ass hovering anxiously over the coffee pot in the breakroom or making personal calls in your boss's office with the door closed, eventually they're going to wonder who has been running the exhaust fan in the good bathroom for so goddamned long. so to prevent awkwardly stumbling over the asshole in HR you hate as she stands with her ear cupped to the door while your duckface uploads on your slow-ass office wi-fi, just announce as you go in that last night you had indian food and a gallon of coffee so you're just going to read the newspaper on your phone and you'll see them in an hour. hashtag #SUCKERS
second you should probably be wearing your repulsive pajamaclothes, you know, for authenticity. i don't believe in false advertising. if there is a chance a person is actually going to come to my crib to eat an assortment of spoiled mayonnaise-based dips and cheese dogs warmed up in the oven (ie engage in sweet, sweet foreplay) then i'm not pushing my tits up to my tonsils and putting on eye makeup before awkwardly leaning against the bathroom door and taking a picture of my naughty business. i don't just sit around in fifty dollars' worth of reinforced satin on a tuesday night. i put on this fancy bra special for you and the entire intercloud to enjoy, but now i am uncomfortable and this itchy lace is digging into my soft meats so instead i'ma just keep chilling in my gross nightshirt with the hole in the armpit so you know exactly what to expect once you cross my actual threshold. i'm not trying to be like mcdonald's commercials with their plump and juicy trickery, hiding the stretch marks on my national geographic tits and blurring out my abundance of moles; nah fam, you're getting these drab greyish patties and cold, wrinkly fries right out the goddamned gate.
and finally, make sure your face is an accurate reflection of exactly how you are feeling in that moment. nothing is sexiif you are feeling sexxxy, maybe you want to cross your eyes slightly and part your lips a little bit, like you're sucking an invisible straw or maybe a tiny, skinny penis. alternately, if you are feeling like you can't even believe the nerve of this stupid motherfucker texting you after three goddamned years with this old thirts trap bullshit, you probably should look like you want to beat his sweaty pre-corpse to death. seriously though, what is the appropriate selfie face? trying to make a hot cum face while taking sixteen blurry pictures of your boobs because you keep dropping your phone is so fucking embarrassing, ugh. but if you smile or look really cheerful that's the weirdest shit ever. have you ever gotten a super smiley picture from someone!? i'm not going to show you my ass hair and while leering at you like a clown THAT SHIT IS LIKE A HORROR MOVIE, BRO. good luck masturbating to this face.
so i sent this picture to dude and was like, "i'm gay now. delete my shit." at which point i immediately received approximately 137 texts all reading: OH SHIT, SON. WASSUP WIT A 3SOME, DOE? ugh fuck cell phones altogether. hit me on my beeper.