The problem with me is…

Part one in a series of ∞

I don’t like the phone. I never have. I don’t like talking on it, I don’t like answering it, or getting most calls… I don’t really know what it is, I just don’t. Psychoanalysis may one day show that I suffered a traumatic experience, sitting one day desperately waiting for a call that never came, but until then, I have to assume it’s as normal a thing as I am.

I think it probably lends itself largely to the fact that I’ve really adopted computers over the years, and little things like Web 2.0; I mean, were it not for Facebook, there’re a ton of people I’d have extremely seldom to no contact with at all. The Internet does everything for me, from email to online shopping and banking and the like.

I warn people of this as much and often as possible, but it remains something about me that remains unchanged over the years. I just don’t call people on the phone. If anything good comes out of it, it’s that holidays and celebrations are made the more special for the fact that I put all of that aside to actually connect with people and show them that they actually mean that much to me.

Justified? No… I’ll admit that. And there are too many people out there, like the Rodrigues’ in Bradford, for example, that I simply adore and wish I could keep in better touch with, if only I could get over this issue of mine (oh, and also, if you’re reading, I don’t have your number anymore. I looked, I miss you guys a lot).

I don’t know, just… the problem with me is that I don’t like talking on the phone.

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  • About

    My name is Bobby.

    I write about random things a lot. I write a lot about random things.

    I write occasionally for Smashing Magazine and the London Community News online, and weekly for Interrobang, the student voice newspaper at Fanshawe College in London, Ontario.

    I've also been published by the Canadian University Press.
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