I’m Writing This Because I Have The Time

I have work at 7:30 this morning. During the week, I open my cafe an hour earlier, so I like to keep my misery consistent and wake up at 4am on the weekends too. So I set my alarm, my old fashioned, analog, ear-piercing bell alarm.

I wake up this morning to my bell alarm, and start to get ready. Like a good digital slave, I check my phone for social media notifications and note something strange. It says 3am. But the slow-to-update weather widget on my front screen says 4am.

What the hell time is it?

I look at my bell clock again.


I look at my phone.


I look at my oven clock.


2-1 says it’s 4 in the morning, so I continue getting ready.

Please note that it is indeed 4 or 3 in the morning and my mind only functions at a quarter capacity until the sun comes out. I digress.

I’m doing this thing where I really want my hair to grow, and I bought an arsenal of vitamins to aid with that process. I have an alarm set every morning at 6am to ensure that I take them. Yes, it’s that early to make sure nothing can possibly get in my way of doing so, because ‘know thyself’ and ‘know thyself’s pathetic inability to maintain routines.’ Anyway, 6am rolls around, and that alarm never went off. So I start piecing together the weird nature of my morning and take to the Internet to discover that Daylight Savings Time ended last night and all clocks need to be adjusted back an hour.

There are two things that, when deprived of, lead me to get impossibly hostile. First is food, second is sleep. I am infuriated. I am tired. I am still confused. It’s still morning, but now it’s even more morning. I loathe mornings. And worse than being frustrated is not being able to direct it at something or someone. I didn’t even know exactly what I was mad about. Was it that I could have gotten a whole extra hour of sleep? Was it that I was not informed ahead of time? Was it that I have gone out of my way to bring back certain analog elements into my life because the digital alternatives have failed me and now analog is betraying me too? Is it because I have a rant in my drafts I have yet to publish about that very topic and I feel like my point has, in this moment, lost its impact? I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M MAD, BUT I’M MAD DAMMIT.

I’m going to just direct my rage at Daylight Savings Time as a whole. Why do we still practice it? We’re like the only country in the world or one of very few. It’s pretty antiquated at this point. Was there a time when it was useful? Sure. For farming. When people were farmers. And daylight savings was put into motion so there would be more time in the day for the harvest during the summer. That makes fine sense.

But do you even know a farmer? Are you best friends with a farm hand? Ever hugged a chicken? No? Well yeah, because the farming industry isn’t a bunch of families out working their fields anymore. They’re a bunch of big companies growing barely-food and harvesting it commercially with machines and advanced technology that doesn’t need an extra hour to do diddly squat.

I feel like at this point, Daylight Savings Time is a blatant disrespect of the few American farmers that are still left. They aren’t treated well and are constantly being edged out of their business by corporate giants who the government backs because their bullying pays politicians’ salaries. What’s the extra hour for now? Sixty extra minutes of harvesting the Monsanto soy that blew into your field so you can get sued out of house and home? The practice is pointless and I’m tired and mad.

I suppose I can be grateful that I had an extra hour to say hi to you all and write a post. But no, I would have preferred the sleep. I hope you all at least set your clocks back or relied on satellite based time telling tech for your alarms this morning. I’m going to sleep vicariously through you.

Much Ado: Voicemail

I finally did it. I gave in. Sold out! The growing desperation for employment has led me to do the unthinkable; to go against everything I stand for in this world.

I emptied my voicemail box.

I am dreading the consequences of my actions today. I’ve had it so good for so long, but it’s all over now.

A thing about me: I hate voicemail. Actually, hate isn’t even a strong enough word. I abhor them. Yes, it’s that serious. Every step of the exasperating process boils me into a rage steaming enough to cook my dinner.

I don’t like pointless things. And because caller ID exists, as does texting, as does so many other means of communication, voicemails just don’t warrant any necessity to me. But yet, people still feel obligated to call me, wait through minutes of rings, automated voices, and an age old beep, just to say, “Hey, this is that person who’s name is clearly plastered all over your phone. Yeah it’s me! And I called you, which you might not have gathered from that MISSED CALL notification that is making your phone blink unceasingly. I’m not going to tell you what I wanted, thus thoroughly taking a dump on the only point this function has ever intended to serve. So call me back, because OBVIOUSLY.

I’m not calling you back. I would have been more inclined to respond if you hadn’t sent me a voicemail.

I know who you are.

I know you called me.

I know you want something.

And if you just wanted to say hi, why? 

Do I know you like that?

Because if I do, and you’re not my grandmother, text. me. Snap me. Facebook me. Freaking tweet me. Gram me. Email me. YOU CAN FIND ME ON PINTEREST FOR ALL I CARE. Or if you insist on using such antiquated means of contact then send me a hand-written letter.  Any of which I would respond to quicker than a voicemail.

If I didn’t detest voicemails enough, then phones started making the notification permanently pinned to your task bar until you checked your inbox.

WHAT?! GET THIS ISH OFF MY SCREEN. If I don’t want to check my messages, I shouldn’t have to. What’s it to Verizon if I don’t look at my voicemail?

I’ve tried everything to stop people from leaving me voicemails. Various messages ranging from “If you leave me a message, the terrorists win. Do you hate America?” to, “My voice mailbox is in Spanish for some reason, I’m not going to get your message because I don’t know what it’s telling me.” That second one actually happened. But you awful people kept leaving me voicemails anyway.

Then I remembered some of those lucky turds whom I’ve called before to arrive at an automated response saying the caller I tried to reach had a voicemail that wasn’t set up yet. Dang it, why did I ever set mine up? Can I set it…down? Turn it off? I want that message in my life for the world to hear when they call. I searched for how to do this. I went to my service provider. They told me you can’t undo the set up once your voicemail is active. Blast. There had to be another way.

I got halfway to bliss when I decided to simply stop checking my voicemail. I let my inbox fill up, and I didn’t delete anything. That stupid icon still plagued my notifications, but at least I wasn’t getting any new voicemails. I learned to live with it, and in time I didn’t notice it anymore. When someone would tell me they tried to leave me a message but my mailbox was full, I would just smile, and then quickly readjust to a confused face and reply, “Oh, you DON’T SAY! I should uh.. delete some messages or something. Yeahh. HAH, how weird, right? Pfft.”

But then the day came. The blessed day that I had been waiting for all my smartphone owning life. The day I got a new phone. Turns out that as I transferred everything over to the new device, my voicemail alert didn’t come along for the ride.

No. More. Icon.

No. New. Messages.


Did I just win?

Did I just have my cake and eat it too?

Did I just take a swim and not get wet?

Is the wolf full and the sheep still whole?


I totally just won!



I did it.

I dismantled the establishment…or something!

I’m…I’m so happy. 

By the way, I had a really great time looking up other phrases that mean the same as the cake idiom. Other cultures are so much more fun than us.


You can’t have your mustache and drink your porridge. ~Tamil


Well all that merryment had to come to an end eventually. And today was that sad, sad day.

I was talking to my boss yesterday and it came up about my loathing for voicemails and how I keep my box full so I don’t get new ones. He shook his head at me and asked how I was supposed to get important messages. Important messages like what? I don’t get important messages. No message is important. He pointed out that prospective employers might call. I, still unrelenting, retorted that they could just email me, same way I contacted them. He shook his head again.

I figured, whatever he’s just old. I’d obviously call a job right back if I missed a call. But then it came to me that I don’t always have service. Namely when I’m on the subway. And I can be on the subway at prime periods of the day. And if I get a call when I’m underground, I never receive notification of it. Only texts come through..

Damn. It. All.

I conceded. I had to. It hurts. It hurts so bad. This had better be worth it or there will be hell to pay.

I didn’t even know how to call my voicemail anymore. I didn’t remember my password. I finally broke in and had 27 messages. 27 messages consisting of 3 minute long recordings of rustling pockets, relatives who called just to ask, “Who is this,” and the many jerkwad friends of mine who went on tirades that always started off with, “So I know you hate voicemails, BUT HERE’S ANOTHER ONE ABOUT NOTHING HAHAHA!”

I need some time to recover. That was just too much.

P.S. If any of you cretins and kretins(you know who you are) take advantage of my weak state right now and leave me voicemails, I will consider it an act of war and you’d better be prepared for the fallout. ~ Much love :3