I fear change the way an actor fears an M. Night Shyamalan script. Which is why I haven’t given up my 1993 Volvo 240DL, my Timberland boots or my Sony Walkman, either. Also, I like seeing when a person reads my email so I can get pissed that they haven’t returned it yet.
I’m like the British circa 1960: still insisting I rule an empire but, below the surface, realizing my life has long since peaked.
I’m a drifter. My primary computer is in the public library. And my primary phone is in a booth.
In case you didn’t already know, I’m very very smart. And yes, I’m smart enough to know that there should be a comma between those two verys. I just didn’t think you were.
I believe the media’s too tough on Travolta, Cruise and L. Ron.
I’d rather be a big fish in a small pond than a small fish with a cool email address.
I crave convenience and bundling. If I could get my utility, car insurance and Poland Spring bills in one statement, I’d sign up for that, too.
Now that you no longer have to be invited to Gmail—like I was—and FYI, I was invited by someone extremely important—anyone can just waltz in here and feel special. But, truth be told, they’ll never be as special as me.
I’m on the cutting edge of technology. I mock people who still have the iPad 1 or the iPhone 3GS. And I’m more worried about Steve Jobs’ health than my own.
I’m so worth celebrating, I’ve got a closet full of monogrammed shirts, pillowcases and belt buckles, too. Oh, and I have a bad memory.
I relish not having to log off to check email in between reading my cousin’s co-worker’s nephew’s status updates and seeing if the girl down the hall accepted my friendship because this is only the third time I’ve asked her.