Phone Pooper

Image has unrelated with post. Sorry. Feeling incontextually cheeky. Besides, a picture of an outhouse wouldn't explain anything either. Would it?
I'm bowel shy. Thus I don't have a phone.
When I go, I have to take the phone with me for two reasons:
  1. To distract me
  2. To distract the folks who might be passing around the bathroom from any sound effects by camouflaging it in the phone’s music in full volume.

It just happened that things got unusually complicated this time. My phone slipped into the bathtub. I tried drying and reviving it with no avail. My precious Smartphone. The phone my little brother gave as pelangkah (overstepping) gift for getting married before me two years ago.

When I told him about it, the Timekeeper lassoed the parental high horse. "Let it be a lesson for you to never take your phone to the bathroom with you."

I took offense. "You, of all people, should know how mean you sound."


It started when I was little. The Timekeeper, as one of the people who helped raise me, has had his fair share of my shit flying his way.

Or in this case, rickshawing his way.

One night, we were at my aunt’s and I needed to go. I couldn't. The idea of having to go in a traditional outhouse knotted me up. My parents found me curled up at a corner, soaked in cold sweat. They figured out what's wrong and – smearing horror on humiliation – they announced it to the world in roaring laughter.

Then they hailed a rickshaw and took me to the Timekeeper's house, few blocks away from my aunt's. Like all private toilets, this one also represented its owner's hygienic habits: sterile and shiny with obsessive cleanliness.

There, forever traumatized, I went.


Back to the present. I was probably tired and haven't gotten the publishing orgasm for too long. Hence, his comment won my master a generous overflow of pettiness.

I swore, "See if I'm ever going to use the phone ever again!"

Of course, I'm still as communication-overloaded as any attention-whoring blogger hipster. Being connected through the internet from three other gadgets (iPod, iPad, laptop) doesn’t exactly pass this as a CCE (Communication Constipation Emergency).

It has been nearly four days since the death of my phone, rest its jingles in peace. I am happy to announce that I haven't followed suit. The passing of a phone – great-great-grandinvention of Mr. Graham Bell, mothergadget of alarms and beeps and notifications, step-sister to insanity – feels uncanny, but not critically.

It shames me to admit that I haven't taken advantage of the golden hush well enough. Except in fixing my sleep, which was single-handedly devastated by the writing marathon. (Which I won, of course. Titus! To not be able to poop AND lose that challenge?) I was hoping that some magic might follow the absence of a phone. Like winning another ridiculous challenge or something.

Maybe it's too early to say. Or maybe I won't say. Not over the phone, at least. I look forward to knowing how long I could hold out without a phone. (My record is 10 zombified days.)

In the meantime, I need to publish this post. Now. As distracted and rushed as it seems. Before anything else falls victim to my unpublished pettiness.

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