I texted my wife and asked if she wouldn’t mind stopping by the store and grabbing me some beer and chili. And also, some foot fungus spray because something is growing on my sandals. It’s right next to the Gold Bond powder which I also needed because my balls were feeling a bit sweaty this summer. But it wasn’t my wife who texted me back. It was my 12-year-old daughter.
“Dad!” she texted. Then she put some sort of emoji thing at the end of the text, and I’m not sure if she was cussing at me in a foreign preteen language.
I love to text because it puts yet another buffer between me and humanity. After reading the news, most days I feel like I need that buffer. People are stupid, including me. Apparently, I just text whoever was the last person I was talking to no matter if the message was meant for my wife. It happens a lot.
I informed a friend that I had found a great deal on canned cat food. Like, a whole bunch for just ten bucks. Our cat is eighteen and pretty much requires gross meat Slurpees. My friend wasn’t as enthusiastic as my wife would have been at this cost-saving opportunity.
My sister is now aware, as of last Tuesday, that I have the poops and that sex is off the table when we have spaghetti night.
The furnace repair guy may be filing some sort of harassment charges on me because I called him sugartits.
It’s honestly shocking at this point that I haven’t texted an ex-girlfriend asking her if the toddler is napping. I’m sure that wouldn’t cause any troubles in my marriage. The point is, I should probably stop texting or at least pay attention to the names on top of my phone screen. But my life is busy. I’ve got a lot of fatherly things to do. I have to apologize to some family members and find lawyers who would be willing to represent me because I may be cyberbullying people. That’s a lot of shit to work on. So I keep texting, apparently randomly.
My neighbor thinks that I asked her to put the kids to bed because they were being little crapholes. I had to follow up that text, once discovered, with “OMG I meant to send that to my wife! I was talking about my kids. Not your kids! Playdate next week still on?”
I have told Mick, another good friend, that I love him more every day. I didn’t try to fix that one. I do love Mick. He’s an awesome guy.
“Send me some naked pictures. All the cool kids are doing it. Let me see some 80085!” See what I did there? I spelled ‘boobs’ like you would on a calculator. I thought I was being cute when I texted this one. Sexting. I’ve read about it. This wasn’t a thing when I began dating my wife. We had to call each other using long-distance companies and pay a per-minute fee. What seemed like an inconvenience back in the day, I now realize was a quality control measure.
I texted all that to my mom. I asked my sixty-five-year-old mother to show me her boobs. And this is why my wife and I never sext.
Shannon Carpenter is a writer who lives in Kansas City and enjoys every kind of donut. Follow him on twitter @hossmanathome. Represented by Chris Kepner.