FONTANA: Weapons of mass texting

Ask any average young adult with a meager pulse and at least one vital human appendage (an opposable thumb) just how important texting is to his or her life, and you’ll get a variety of answers ranging from “OMGTXTING= <3 B.F.F. NBD!” to “Ha! What a triviality of which this poorbeggar is querying of my affinity. Ah, but I digress. Shoo, leave us troubled inquisitor.” The latter, though oddly outdated, is most certainly lying. The truth is, even if we’re forced to remove our Apps that tell us which way is north or the ones that help us get dressed in the morning, our phone’s ability to both send and receive text messages is a function we simply can’t live without. Yet, the more text savvy I become and the more I stop to watch the multitude of texters that surround me, the more I realize that everything about this texting “culture” is awful.

This incredible resource, like so many powers before it (nuclearweapons, kryptonite, the Triforce) has fallen into the wrong hands: our own. And frankly, I don’t think Superman is waiting around the corner to save us . . . from ourselves. The Nefarious Association of Texting Overlords has employed a series of diabolical spies sent to infiltrate our communities and spread their texting disease faster than a Windows Vista virus. There’s the constant-texter: an addict by all means, whose texting fervently interferes with face-to-face conversations. Someone wholives and breathes for that fix, the onomatopoeia of vibrations sounding that instantaneous, completely disconnected “human-connection.”

Or there’s the never-texter: a proverbial black hole. Texts may come in, but they never come out (dun dun dun). Of course, we have our moody-texters (ladies?) who have those bad days just slightly too often and end up biting your head off simply for asking, “how’s it going?” But you also get the is-this-a-joke-texter (guys) who often text things that rely too heavily on inflection to really hit home the rather sarcastic, crude, or, more frequently, just plain dumb humor we send in our short, but ignorantly not-so-sweet, messages.

And last, but certainly not least, we have the NATOs most specialized and rampant unit: the over-interpreter-texter or thereading-WAY-too-much-into-me-saying-hello-texter. Be wary of their abilities to manipulate and incite rage. If you find one proceed with caution or, simply do as I would do, “Run away!” Some of my dearest comrades have fallen prey to these viral fiends. I have a friend who punctuates his texts grammatically correct for any “normal” type of communication, but when someone reads “OK,” he’ll often get a reply asking “are you alright? You seem angry. Are you mad at me?” The “period” throws the whole mood of the conversation off, casting worry and concern into texters across the globe.

The over-interpreter-texters slyly turn our education against us! Punctuation has transformed the art of texting into  chemical warfare where a comma can turn fun flirting into awkward confusion and a small winking face can make even the funniest joke turn into a reason to take out a restraining order. Already our humble city of Boston is facing the after effects of these weapons’ powers. Only the worst part is that these WMTs don’t disperse a cloud of radiation, but rather, they seem to take over the minds and bodies of those who come in contact with their digital pixels, turning our population into, dare I say it, zombies!

The apocalypse is upon us, repent and the Lord shall grant you AK-47s! We must fight for our freedom! Just look around the street. People staring at their phones with wide, blood red eyes, thumbs moving at random over crowded keypads, numb to the world around them, talking in some foreign code of numbers and letters. I fear that it may be too late. But, there are certain precautions that I would recommend. Bunkers are a necessity. The deeper, the better. And see if you can’t build some extra-thick walls to block those super-invisible  “texting waves” said to travel for miles. I recommend removing your thumbs. Or at the very least, learning how to remove them efficiently at a just a moment’s notice. You never know when you might feel that itching monkey on your back, the desire to furiously punch buttons on your small portable devices. And if all else fails, a newly developed alliance, the Wartext Pact, has secretly been placing “Dead Zones”across the country as safe-havens for those of us who still remain untouched by the texting’s cold, zombie-like hands. But, if we’re not turning into zombies, then it must be androids and in that case, I guess I’d like to say “mmkgrtthxbye!” Because when alien androids do arrive, we’ll all be screwed.