I liked my phone being a brick, a flip phone that worked as just a phone- making calls, texts, and an alarm clock. But when my phone notoriously feel out of my pocket on the way out of the library and brother nature decided to rain, I had to get a new phone, the old one was fried and crunched from enduring the weight of a car.
I deciphered the possibilities of a smart phone vs. a standard cell phone. I wanted entirely to continue with a simplified phone. I liked being somewhat disconnected with the world, it gives me a sense of freedom from the obligation of communication. But ultimately the price according to Verizon was the same for a smart phone and a basic phone- I opted for the handheld Google machine.
It had been decades since the beginning of Apple ruling the world. It wasn’t the CEO or diligent worker drones that lead the mindless takeover, it certainly wasn’t the human consumers either, but the Apple himself that controlled all his loyal minions. Glowing high in the tower, Apple the super computer had grown to an illustrious size and his power was brighter than the moon.
The takeover was easy, though it was hands that had built him, they had given up their minds in making him omniscient. The human race had slowly faltered to see their dependency in machines and had given in so easily to the conditioning of tones. Daily beeps and alerts had sunk deep in to their memory and eventually the simplest of tones became a unanimous indication to habitually check their mini-machines. Soon the bells and whistles where no longer unique to the individual and Apple had synchronized timely alerts so that all sounds eventually molded and morphed in to an easy trigger for Apple to begin his puppetry of the human race.
If The Ground Should Break
I listened to the heavy rain meet the water proofing of my jacket and roll off. The mud squished and grabbed at my feet as I pursued the edge of the path and wondered how I had been the only one to break from the trail at the Causeway. My Wellies were pooling with water drops from the high weeds at the edge of this historical setting. I was lost.
If The Food Wasn’t Good Well Then Damn it, Your Taste Buds Don’t Work
Either I’m becoming bitter or the world gives less fucks. It’s more likely the latter and I haven’t decided if it’s necessarily a bad thing. By the term less fucks or zero fucks given, I’m using a cultural term nominated by my generation to compete with the popular term “I don’t give a fuck”. Our term turns “fuck” or the act of sex in to a reward that if the person cared enough they would give a “fuck”. Whereas before “fuck” was equivalent to nothing and was used in the same context to mean a big “I don’t care.” Since the return of a journey abroad for a decent amount of time the magical land of Colorado has considerably changed and people give fewer fucks. Sorry for the vulgarity in the this article.
Am I a Bartender? Why Yes, I’m a Writer.
Am I a writer or a bartender? That is a great question because the traits for both sometimes seem interchangeable. I’ve been working the service industry for almost ten years. I’ve had other jobs sprinkled in between, working retail, sitting at a desk, peer education, but none of them really qualified as making me feel happy and nothing so entertaining as what I do now. I’ve begun to make a living doing two things, serving alcohol and serving the words that stream out of my mouth.Being a bartender and a writer are strangely similar and both allow me to speak my mind. You might be wondering how two very different things can go together and I will so gladly point them out.
My cousin Stan got married in Grand Junction Colorado, I was four-years-old. My aunt Terri took a turn in attending to my four-year-old needs and took me to the bathroom. She let me use the restroom stall by myself where I proceeded to strip off all my clothes. My dress, underwear, socks and shoes were all scattered on the tile in my stall. My aunt asked me if I was alright and I proceeded to yell, “Aunt Terri I’m naked in here.”
What Are the Words Again?
Growing up my parents switched between a modern pop station and the classic oldies. Riding in the car I would get the mix of “Calender Girl” and Smash Mouth. My father has an exceptional voice which amazed me for his burly, thick fatigue. More often at Christmas he would grace us with his a cappella voice. But in the car we were honored with his vocal chords singing to the radio while I sang along with him in the back seat. I always imagined that I was a good singer, being daddy’s little girl. I even wrote my own songs and preformed them to a back yard audience of woodland creatures.My mom informed me that I was probably tone deaf.“What does that mean?” I asked her.“It means you can’t hear the way your singing,” she said. “You’re off key.”This might have been a simple matter of fact to my mother when she confessed that she was tone deaf, but the translation was that I couldn’t sing.