Don't tell me to get off my phone you old sack of crap

Don't tell me to get off my phone you old sack of crap

CultureNovember 22, 2017 By A.J. DiCosimo

It's Wednesday evening, and I'm sitting in the booth of a greasy spoon curiously Googling what percentage of North Korea's population is black. I hate myself because I'm a fat pathetic collage of thoughts, and skin, and I can't sleep even though I promised my boss I was going to be into work thirty minutes earlier than usual; which is still fifteen minutes after my shift is supposed to start.

A man with a brown leather jacket, and a really, really cool receding hairline, is at the front counter paying his bill. Out of the corner of my eye I see him looking in my direction over his left shoulder.

“These kids can't go five minutes without checking their goddamn cell phones,” he says to the uninterested server.

“Millennials ... They wouldn't have survived thirty years ago.”

Then he left his tip and exited the diner to go home and feign affection for his disgusting kids who probably pretend to be on their phones all day and night so they don't have to deal with their old man, and his creepy, stinky mustache.

Your youth is in the rear view mirror. The inevitable embrace of death's touch is waiting for you right around the corner, and the only thing you're concerned with is how much time I'm spending on my mobile device.

If you must know: I'm getting tips from an 11-year-old kid from Calcutta on how to better improve my chess game. Earlier, I watched a documentary about the life of Frida Kahlo; and in a little bit I'm going to watch a woman get fucked by machines.

What did you do today asshole?

Did you whittle a stick in a rocking chair on your front porch?

Or maybe you sat at a bar with an old college buddy talking about how disgusting it is to kneel during the national anthem, or about that night you fingered a 14-year-old in the third row of a Don Henley concert, and how a part of you is secretly ashamed now that you have a 14-year-old of your own, but the other part tries to reconcile it by conceding it was the '80s and times were different then.

You did coke, and wanted to be like Don Johnson. You had pet rocks, Duran Duran 8 tracks, and when you weren't learning all the moves to Thriller you were beating up “faggots” in your letterman jacket — because you were such a cool guy.

I wish I was a cool guy. I wish I was you. But, unfortunately, I'm too busy writing this article while I update my Indeed resume. I'm a loser I guess because I have the means to find the information to just about anything I want to know within seconds of when I want to know it. You're right. I couldn't have survived the '80s. I would have went down in a hail of gunfire at the hands of the people I paid good money to, to fire at me.

I may not have been able to survive in your time, but you won't survive in mine. The difference is that time is on my side, and your species is becoming extinct. We were not made for each other.

We cannot exist simultaneously.