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.

Woah.

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?

YES.

I totally just won!

Winner.

Me.

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.

Mustache

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

Homeless Encounters

I was walking around downtown the other day. It was kind of hot out, and I was running to a few different places. I go past City Hall, over where the sub entrance is, and these homeless guys start yelling at me. I had headphones on so I just ignored them and acted as if I didn’t hear them. But I did hear them…

“What is you wearing tights on for?”

“Ay. Ay! AYE GIRL! It’s too hot for them tights!”

“It’s so hot out! What is she doing?”

I swear, only in Philadelphia will the homeless community judge your fashion sense in passing. What the feezy?

Couple things..

Why do you care so much about what I’m wearing that you feel the need to yell at me on the street about it, like that will change anything? Don’t you have more pressing questions that should be answered? Like, oh I don’t know, maybe what you and the pet cat you inexplicably have are going to eat tonight? Worry about yourself! You don’t know my life! You don’t know what cold buildings I enter on a daily basis. You don’t know how often I shave my legs. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything.

They irked me. I do not mess with the homeless like that. I have stories. You’re nice and try to give, and it just backfires. I am so done.

One time my uncle and I were leaving a baseball game and walking to the car which we parked outside of the stadium lot. On the way to the car, this man was sitting outside of this fried chicken shop, and he asked us for food. We were willing to help, so naturally we went into the place he was sitting by. We get this guy a meal, bring it out to him, and he starts thanking us, telling us God bless, all that stuff. Then he opened the bag…

“…Chicken? I’M F*CKING SICK OF CHICKEN!”

And he proceeded to chuck the bag of food at us in disgust.

Oh, I’m sorry, homeless guy, that my generosity wasn’t good enough for you. You asked for food and you received food. Not good enough though. My bad. Was I supposed to drive down the road and get you something else? Nevermind the whole, beggars can’t be choosers thing, but you do realize the meaning of the term homeless, right? LIke, if you were so sick of chicken to the point of refusing it, you could just move and sit outside of some place that, y’know, wasn’t a chicken store? You’re not paying mortgage on the sidewalk, get up and leave! But yeah, he just threw the food back at us. And it’s experiences like those that have kept me from making eye contact with people on the street.

Anyway, if you have stories about your interactions with the homeless, I’d love to hear them in the comments.