Okay, bitch, let’s talk.
Just now, I was in the elevator with you, riding up. You got off a few floors below me. You had your phone out. You were checking it for something—something momentously important, I’m sure. I know it was important because you were totally engrossed, which caused you not to exit the elevator in a timely manner, but rather to meander slowly toward the open doors, thumbs busily hitting the screen, while the rest of us stood. And waited. For you to get through the goddamned elevator doors so they would shut behind you and we could be on our way.
You are a worthless human being.
I was walking behind you on the street just the other day. You were on your phone, texting. You must have been texting about something momentously important then, too, because just ahead of me, you stopped dead, in the middle of the sidewalk, so as to better concentrate on your texting. Causing me to damn near ram you in the rear end. Which I really should have done, because listen, you moron, if you need to take care of some fucking business, get yourself the hell out of the middle of the sidewalk and go do it somewhere where you’re not in other people’s way.
I was also driving behind you the other day. On the Schuylkill Expressway. You were in the left lane, doing 75 and simultaneously doing what I’ve come to call the Texting Weave. Remember in that movie The In-Laws when Alan Arkin and Peter Falk get off the plane in Tijuana and the bad guys are shooting them and Peter Falk yells “Serpentine, Shel! Serpentine!” as they’re running away? That’s what you look like from the back. But of course you don’t remember that movie, because it came out in 1979, and you weren’t born until 1992.
You make me think very unworthy thoughts as I watch you careen down the highway in front of me. I want you to go ahead and plow into the median divider already. I want to see your car burst into a breathtaking tower of flame. I want your mother and father to live forever with the knowledge that the last thing you typed on this Earth was an all-caps SRSLY?!?!? Because, SRSLY, they raised an ill-mannered lout.
Listen, I understand: The Internet is just like cocaine. Facebook is more important to you than your boyfriend. You love social media even though you know it’s making you unhappy. You can’t help yourself! That’s why you’re sleep-texting and suffering from phantom vibration symptom and anxiety attacks and binge drinking and sending naked photos of yourself to unattractive men. I don’t care! Go ahead! I don’t give a ragged cat’s ass about any of those things! I just don’t want you to make me wait, trip me up, or kill me or anybody else I’m fond of. So stay the fuck out of my way.