It is Spring Break, 2019. That means we are all going to die.
I’m serious—sort of. A spring break in Lower Alabama, and Northwest Florida, means that a simple drive to the grocery store is a deadly tactical maneuver. Spring breakers are on the highways, and they are too busy texting to drive a car.
They steer with their knees, glancing at phones, avoiding eye-contact, texting such vital sentiments as:
“LOL! IKR?”
Today, I passed three car wrecks on the way to get my dry cleaning. Outside the vehicles stood young men and young women who were crying on officers’ shoulders, traumatized by the horrifying reality of coming scarily close to almost losing their cellphones.
Things have changed. Last week, I was in Nashville, using the public restroom in a crowded place. I entered the mens’ room to find every stall occupied.
There, standing before eight urinals were eight young men who were—I am sorry to get too personal—using their cellphones.
That poor janitor.
Sure, I know society has become technologically advanced, I’m
no fool. Still, I miss the days when a fella could visit the bathroom without waiting for the guy ahead of him to finish writing an email to his boss.
My cousin’s son is in town for spring vacation this week. He texted me yesterday to see what I was up to. He is twenty-two years old, and his texts are hard for me to understand because he abbreviates everything.
“How R U,” he texted—no question mark.
“Hey!” I wrote—I took the time to add an exclamation point because that is the kind of guy I am.
He texted in reply: “WYD?”
“You’re gonna have to be a little more clear.”
“LOL! It means ‘What are you doing?’”
“I’m texting a twenty-two-year-old.”
“#Lifegoals.”
“#Whatdoesthatmean?”
“LOL! IKR?"
Give me strength, Lord.
I didn’t want to ask,…