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Posts Tagged ‘texting’

This post is actually a little power-tagged because, regret to inform, I actually didn’t end up going out with the guy I met on the T after The Slutcracker. Bummer, right? I was really psyched!

We were supposed to go out on Wednesday, but the snag was that we couldn’t meet until 10pm (which, considering we met on public transportation, raised the sketch to perilous new levels), because I had class ’til 9:30, and Wednesday was the only night I didn’t have jam-packed.

We’d texted a bit on the night that we met — just, like, “nice to meet you!” stuff — and on Wednesday I waited with, I hate to admit, embarrassing earnestness for a follow-up text. Nothing. Finally, around 6pm, I texted him: “We still on?” and twenty minutes later he texted to say he had an early meeting the next day and going out starting at 10pm was just way too late, but “wanna go out tomorrow?” But my Thursday was already overloaded, so I texted him: “Totally booked tomorrow.”

No response.

My female friends did the right thing and tried to convince me that it was impossible he would have lost interest a few days after seeing me, and that he made an earnest attempt to reschedule, etc, etc, etc, but I mean, dudes, he’s just not that into me. It’s cool. Really, there’s nothing lost here: I picked him up in a T station, like a crazy person, and we didn’t even know anything about each other, so, y’know, no big deal.

Man, though, I had been really psyched! I’m usually cool-to-lukewarm on people when I first meet them, and can’t abide touching, so it was pretty thrilling to meet someone whom I immediately wanted to, like, rub my face on. Whatever, though. There will be other guys, not on other trains, whom I’m sure I can rub my face on in future.

Leaving for Vegas in a few hours, to spend Christmas with the fam! So, dude, if you’re a Vegas person I know irl and want to go out and have an adventure, let me know! Otherwise, see you cats on Monday with some uncharacteristic Vegas craziness.

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NTKOG #48: The kind of girl who passes up on the mind-broadening, life-giving joys of literature in favor of more modern occupations like texting, fretting and the ubiquitous earbud. For one full week, I gave up reading of all sorts on my two to three hours of daily commuting.

I am: literary in kind of a big way. Basically 97% of my non-secretary time is spent reading four or five novels a week, writing fiction and creative non-fiction, discussing things I’ve read, or doing things to write about. The other 3% is spend making sacrifices to the Awesome Gods for giving me the perfect life.

I am not: one of those vapid 20somethings in whose skull an iPhone light-pulses where once a brain ought to have been.

The Scene: Brighton to Cambridge, back and forth, five days a week. I live only about four and a half miles from my work, which is only two miles from the classes I take twice a week, but for some reason any one leg of the trek takes a dang hour via T. Which doesn’t totally bother me until, by habit, I accidentally look up google maps directions for car instead of Public Transit, and see their blithe little suggested eight-minute drive bloat into an hour-long menace. Screw you, google maps.

On day one of book-free commuting, a few lessons strike me immediately: there is no one to text at 7:45am; if you tweet more than once every three hours, you become a loser jerk who nobody likes; not only is web browsing on the iPhone annoying, but it kind of feels like cheating on your faithful workday procrastination. Okay, so listening to music it is!

I have the same relationship with music as you might have with, say, your third-favorite cousin’s pet labradoodle: I say I like it. And maybe even I kind of like it. But at the end of the day, I find it just pretty okay, and just feel more or less societally pressured to put on a little chumminess with it.

I mean, until last week. I’d just had a handful of fairly great, like, indie songs recommended to me by someone, so I threw together a short playlist and … basically just listened to it non-stop for a full week. That’s always my strategy with music, among other things: love it and love it and love it until I couldn’t hate it one drop more.

Dude, though, it really didn’t feel empty at all, giving up my books for the week. instead of treating music like background, as per uzh, I cleared my mind of all distraction, and focused on it as completely as I do on reading. I listened so intently that I could taste it through my ears, that I was aware of how every note was slightly changing my heart rate or the way I breathed. And — that happy constant trick of the universe — changing the way I perceived the thing changed the thing itself.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a total blob of super-mega-perceptiveness every time I wanted to listen to a silly track. But I tried to be in my moment with the music as much as possible, and it really did make it feel as intellectually and emotionally nourishing as a novel. With a bonus side order of totally, totally making me feel like I was the protagonist of a film, striding toward some urgent climax every. single. minute. Which? Kind of badass.

The Verdict: My week without books behind me, don’t get me wrong: I’ve got both book and laptop ready for the T, prepared to take full advantage of my daily me-time. But I’m also waaaay more likely to be wearing earbuds while I write — in no small part because it drowns out other people’s dang music on the T! — and almost 100% positive to be listening to music when I do other, non-reading-friendly tasks, like walking to lunch or home from the bus.

Just a nice daily reminder, I guess, to keep experiencing the world honestly and inventively and through all of your senses until you’re a writhing, bloody pulp of sensory overload. It’s, like, kind of the only thing that reminds us that we’re alive, I guess?

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