First off, I've done something this month that has never before been written in the annals of The Grand History of Barry. I've accomplished something so epic and incredible and something so freaking awful that I just had to post it here for the whole world (or at least my followers) to hear in all of it's expensive glory. For 31 days, my fingers flew like those of a rock god on a golden guitar - the glass of my iPhone bending and warping with the heat as my digits danced into an ever-blurred flurry.
I WENT OVER ON MY TEXTS
In an unprecedented event, I mashed out 1743 texts in a month - exceeding my legal texting capacities by exactly 243.
At $0.05 a piece, I owe an additional $12.15 to the man. It's not the money that matters, though. It's the principle.
Part of me wonders why, at the very least, my texts don't roll over like my minutes do. I NEVER use all of my minutes. And at the end of each month, those pristine minutes remain in their shiny little packages tucked safely into a beautiful box of wonder. Currently, 2680 of them reside at peace, building a village, waiting for the glorious day when I'll call them up to be burst - at the speed of light - into the blazing realm of communication.
Here's where things get real sad.
The text messages sit all month waiting - just like the minutes do. Their gleaming little eyes so full of hope. So full of wonder. Dreaming of the day when they'll be called on to communicate. And when the month ends, they look up into the sky to see a light - a beautiful, efflorescent light. And they smile. They think for a moment that their time has come and that all is finally well and that their hard work has paid off. They watch the light grow into something mesmerizing and they speak of how this day was so much more incredible than they ever thought possible - so much more beautiful than they ever could have imagined - and so much more ... BOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!
Charred in a flash without even the opportunity to wait in the box of wonder. Their very existence nullified by the monsters at AT&T. Where once there dwelt the possibility of communication, in all of it's exciting degrees, there lies a parched film. Not even dust, but the dust of dust.
Silence where there should be words.
Zeroes where there should be ones.
It's a damned shame.