The technological tainting of human interaction

It was less than 2 months of phone chemistry.

phone chemistry.

What is that, even?

That guy at the other table looks just like...

I order a Purple Haze. (Reminiscent mistake.)

The MC announces the trivia answer to be. "Washington Redskins." (Are you kidding me?)

"Girlfriend" screams from the car speakers. Hey, Hey, you, you...!
(Be careful what you wish for.)

Boys 2 Men is selected as the next karoake track. (Will you dance with me? Only at arms length.)

I. want. to. take. my. phone. into. the. non-gender-enforced-bathroom-of-this-lesbian-bar. and DROWN it in the toilet. (in the name of phone chemistry.)

Instead, I send a text. I don't know what I'm thinking a text will change. Perhaps those tiny short-hand words on a cell screen will redirect...the alignment of the stars? (I missed talking to you.)

::laughter:: at the absurdity of myself.

On the way home we drive by the building that will soon house my 671 sq. ft. of urban bliss.

It isn't often that I'm out in the heart of downtown on a Tuesday - the throbbing, pulsing middle of downtown.

I find solace in the street sweeper traveling the wrong way on our one-way street, and the water he leaves standing on the asphalt.

I'm sitting next to someone who will love and adore me even when phone chemistry is all we have to link us between Tennessee and California.

It's so hot outside, even driving fast with the top down I'd swear I could swim home in the August humidity.

Sometimes this feels like home, and beneath the stars with the engine shifting up a gear I again know that I will be OK.

Back to degrees.

Back to cats.

To hell with phone chemistry.