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I love technology.
I don’t have nearly as many gizmos as I’d like too.
A glaring omission from my Hi Tech Gadgets List is a smart phone.
Oh, I have a cell phone, but it’s a $90 job from Straight Talk.
A cheap ass Blackberry ripoff.
I only use when I go to Wal Mart or grocery shopping when Mrs. Fearless Leader can’t go with me so she can call me and tell me if we forgot to add something to The Shit I Am Supposed to Buy Today List.
I do not text.
Of the 15 or so years that I have owned a cell phone, I bet I have sent fewer than a dozen texts.
Even when I had a fancy schmancy phone.
Bluntly put, I suck at texting.
I am glad I do, because no matter how proficient one may be at sending text messages, texts have a way of ending up, shall we say, not turning out as one intends them to. And by “not turning out as one intends them to”, I mean “fucked up seven ways to Sunday”.
These days this is mainly due to that Spawn of the Techno-Satan, “auto correct”.
See For Yourself
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