GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1042: DEATH OF A PHONE

 Looks like my good luck streak is coming to an ignoble end. Nothing has gone right for me since Thursday of last week. Monday and yesterday were the flat-our worst, and it all came to a head when my phone had a mental breakdown and died.

I use technology for a very long time. I use cellphones until they literally can't function anymore. But I've only had this one since, what, 2021? That's not long at all, which suggests to me that planned obsolescence is even worse than it was previously.

I was at work when my phone turned itself off, then on again. Off and on again. Off and on. And it wouldn't stop cycling. I tried to get it to stop, and I even looked up ways to troubleshoot it online. All those methods failed. It sucked extra because the software I use to answer phones at work stopped working, and I had to reboot my computer.

I'm sure you can figure out how well that went.

Thankfully there was a way to backdoor my way in without using my phone, but all the same, it was rough. Because I reacted very poorly to it. I actually panicked. I didn't just need my phone to work, I fucking needed it to work. My mind raced, and later, on my 76 minute drive home from the Verizon store, listening to terrestrial radio because I forgot my Spotify login, I realized that I was very familiar with this feeling.

It felt exactly like it did when I underestimated the amount of booze I'd need to knock me out for the night. How could I have finished that bottle? What the fuck? Do I have another here somewhere? One I've forgotten? Wait, there's an airplane bottle around here. There's gotta be. WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?!

That oftentimes happened at three in the morning. Corner Cottage stayed open later than the other liquor stores in town, but even they were closed at that time.

I didn't like that realization about myself. Not just that it reminded me of what it was like back in those  days, but also because it showed me that despite all the precautions I'd taken with my phone, I'm addicted to it.

At the Verizon store I was advised that the motherboard was fried. It would cost more to fix it than it was worth, and I'd lose everything. "But I can get you a deal for $300 off a new phone." I think it was three hundred. My brain was kind of fried, too.

One of the reasons Monday was so miserable was because I'd forgotten about my annual bill for my website, and it just about wiped out my bank account. All the money I'd put in my savings since I got to my new apartment? Gone except for about twenty-ish bucks.

So when the clerk told me that, I thought about all the things I do with this phone. And I realized exactly how free I'd be if I gave up all of them in one go, like a man who, instead of having one last drink of booze before quitting, pours out the rest of the bottle instead. It would hurt. I knew it would. I force myself to not check my phone constantly, and I thought I was beating it by doing that. Surprise! I should have listened to the recent study. I can't find it now, but it stated that a cellphone doesn't have to be used to cause a decline in productivity. It's very presence next to you is enough to do that. I read about it in Arnold's Pump Club. I'll have to go through the archives.

At any rate, I told the clerk, "I'm not going to get a new phone." I explained that I'd get by with a TracFone for emergencies only. I didn't need the other stuff. "I think I'm addicted to this thing. I'm going to let this set me free."

Three cheers for me, yes?

Eh . . . no.

She said that they actually had a trade in promotion, that I'd get a new phone for free. There was just a fee (because of course there was) of $40. So I buckled like a belt and got the new phone. And she got the price down to $29. I luckily had cash in my wallet.

She was very nice and helpful. I'm casting no aspersions on her. But I do have to marvel at the fact that all I had to say was, hey, I'm going to free myself from the tyranny of this tech, and suddenly a phone that cost who knew how much was suddenly down to $29 and change.

By the way, when I got my new phone up and running, none of the pictures survived. I lost all of those. Which is a shame because I had some real quality memes on there.

Clearly my watchful eye wasn't good enough. Now I'm going to have to be super vigilant in my phone use. For example, when I eat out at restaurants with friends, my phone is no longer going on the table next to me. It's staying in my pocket. No more looking at it on commercial breaks. I will find something else to do with my time, because I'm certainly not watching commercials. (And yes, I did forget that terrestrial radio has 10 minute commercial breaks, why do you ask?) I want to not have it next to me when I write, but I often times need to look shit up, and the computer I write on isn't connected to the internet. I'll have to think more about that one. You get the idea.

You might want to think about your own phone usage. You know my feelings about our corporate overlords and what they're doing to us. These phones are, without a doubt, mind control devices. Look up "necessary evil" on Wikipedia, and you'll find a picture of the cellphone. Just a suggestion. I don't know you, but if you're reading my stuff, I have a suspicion you like to think of your mind as your own, not the property of a corporation. As my sci-fi PI used to say, "It's something to consider."

Oh, one more thing. Looks like DeKalb is where radio signals from Chicago start to die. Just about everything I listened to was on the brink of fading out.

It occurs to me that if we did, indeed, suffer a zombie apocalypse we wouldn't make it as far as any of those idiots on The Walking Dead. As soon as we ran out of ways to power our phones, we'd have gone out of our fucking minds. Sure, maybe a handful of Jeremiah Johnsons would be out there, living off the grid, but the majority of us? Not a chance.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #142: I COULD VERY EASILY BE A JUNKIE

Wow. I've been mentioning the fuck out of THE FIFTH HEART by Dan Simmons lately, and while it's a good book (not great), it's been a learning experience. I'm probably going to do a HEY FUCKERS piece on it tomorrow. But the thing that concerns me right now is something else. If you've known me for a while, you're already aware of it. However, if you're new (and I see a lot of new faces around here lately), you have no idea.


A few years ago, I was plagued with a mystery illness, and a year and a month ago, I suffered from organ failure that nearly killed me. In the case of the former, I learned that I had a digestive system that ran a quarter of the speed of everyone else's. In the latter, my pancreas stopped working and nearly killed me.


Because of these two things, I've spent a lot of time in the ER. In addition to that, I've been hospitalized several times. While both issues are unrelated, they have very similar symptoms: constipation, constant pain and constant puking. While being treated for the pain, I was given Vicodin, and I discovered that I'm immune to the recommended dose. I have to triple up on it for it to have any effect on me. Similarly, morphine doesn't even touch the pain I've suffered through. Dilaudid, on the other hand . . .


Dilaudid is very close to heroin. There's heroin, then there's Oxy's, and then there is Dilaudid. I cannot tell you how much I love Dilaudid. When I'm shot up with it . . . wow. As soon as I'm injected, I feel the soothing cloud fill up my heart and lungs, almost burning. It moves on to my head, and then I'm in utter bliss. It's a wonderful feeling. One of the best feelings I've ever had.


Which is why I know I would be an utter junkie if given the opportunity. The first time I learned of Dilaudid's pleasures was a learning experience. I've known junkies in my time, and I never understood them until that moment. Dilaudid took my pain away. It made me feel wonderful. It helped me sleep when I couldn't sleep otherwise. It's my absolute favorite substance ever.


After a while, I healed. The pain went away. But . . . well . . . I fell in love with Dilaudid. I felt compelled to lie about my pain to get my next injection. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I stopped myself. I did not ask for the next injection. Instead, I continued on the healing path until I was back to normal. But all too often, I regretted not asking for one more injection.


Until the next time. And the next time. And the next. Until my organ failure from last year. It still surprises me to realize that since my last injection, I've been fantasizing about my pancreas failing again, just so I can get more Dilaudid. How fucked up is that?


Before I continue, I should note that I've never had heroin. I've had methadone, but it was a complete accident. I was with a woman who was a recovering junkie (at the time). She took her methadone tablets and dissolved them in orange juice. After a long night of passion, I lost track of whose drink belonged to whom, and I accidentally drank her orange juice instead of mine. I found myself on the fast track to hell. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I'm told that I missed the good part because after I drank the OJ, I went to sleep. When I woke up, I went through the worst sensation of my life, and I hope to never experience it again.


But there I was, reading THE FIFTH HEART, and Sherlock Holmes goes through the process of shooting up heroin. The way Simmons explained it? I'll be damned if it wasn't the same as what I felt when the nurses shot me up with Dilaudid. I'm certain that Simmons went through something similar in his own life, his description was that good. It brought back an instant craving. I almost convinced myself that I felt that cloud building up in my torso.


I wanted to go back to the ER, to tell them that I was in pain, just to get a shot of Dilaudid. My insurance would cover it. Easy-peasy. But . . . for $10, I could get a bag of dope in the city. I could probably do it on my own, but if I couldn't, I know people who could help me out. I even know people who could shoot me up, so I wouldn't have to figure out how to do it myself.


It would be so easy that it scared me. I'm very sensible, and I know that such thoughts would eventually lead to my destruction. I knew enough to stop myself. Don't worry. I'm not actually going to seek the shit out. But at the same time, it's shocking how much I crave it.


I recently went through dental surgery, and I have a full bottle of Vicodin. When I convinced myself not to try for the other shit, I realized that if I tripled up on the recommended dose of Vicodin, I could feel something similar. But no, I didn't do that, either.


I think that's proof that I'm not a junkie. The argument could be made that I am, if only because I feel that craving, but I think I've got myself under control, at least in that area. Fast food and caffeine, on the other hand? I still can't see myself living without that shit. I've got to work on that. But opiates? No. I don't think I have a problem. Although . . . I COULD have a problem in the future. I've just got to be wary.


I've been known to say that I'd rather deal with an addiction later than pain now. That's still true. But I've seen junkies, and I'd rather not be like that. It's frightening. The woman I mentioned earlier? I remember waking up in the same bed as her, and it would be shaking like a cheap motel vibrating mattress because she hadn't had her fix.


I don't want to be like that. But I know I could be like that. So . . . maybe I should stay away from ER's . . .