L’s in the Chat: My Own Tale of Devastation Via Text

Let he among you who has not sent classified military attack plans in the wrong group chat cast the first stone. We’ve all been there, am I right?

Wrong number texts are lightning in a bottle. They have the power to deliver riotous laughter to one or both parties. Or shatter another in humiliation. Or bring utter disgrace and (inevitable) resignation of post…Pete, come on buddy, just give it up.

Over the last couple years I’ve periodically received wrong number texts from a mechanic in my home state of Missouri. The first time I politely explained it was a case of mistaken identity. The second time…well, I felt I had been given a license to ill-will.

The texts would often include a picture of a car part that was unfamiliar to me, which, to be fair, is a category that includes a wide swath of automotive components. The mechanic would then request an answer to a question like “you wanna replace or just recement this one?” to which I began matter-of-factly replying “let’s recement this time”. A few months later another green bubble would pop up, “what should we do for these ball bearing joint-manipulators?” to which I shot back “just get rid of ‘em”.

In my twisted mind, what I have managed through these intermittent exchanges over the last couple years, is to create some sort of Frankenstein’s monster of a 2003 Chevy Silverado - with 3 conflicting paint jobs, gold rims with fake mud splatter for authenticity, one single functionless cyclopean mirror emerging from it’s top, and a shoddily soldered chassis with absolutely zero structural integrity. Call me Xzibit, because I pimped this guy's ride.

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. - The Creature

However, that fearlessness doesn’t come without consequences. When one begins to text with free reign, without a care or concern for what may come, Icarus’ crispy corpse yearns to signal us with a warning.

Well, back when I was dating my now wife, I had gone on a boys weekend trip to watch the Dallas Mavericks host the New Orleans Pelicans in a regular season national basketball association game. Luka balled out (this was before the Dallas Mavericks become a laughing stock for trading the man for a half-eaten pack of corn nuts. Great times were had by all. Until, on the final day, I developed an intense allergic reaction to God knows what (because I literally don’t know to this day). My face swelled up like an inflamed water balloon. For a few days I walked around looking like the Bubble Boy Pez dispenser.

Over time the swelling went down, but a rash developed on my body. It covered my arms and legs and itched like the dickens. Each day it persisted, I wasted away my hours, waiting for night time so I could find relief from my daily existence. I had become the very curse I had brought upon that forsaken Silverado. I was the creature.

But go on, life must. I still had to continue to eat, to work, to live. So I had eggs for breakfast. I continued to do freelance marketing remotely. I still regularly texted and called my long-distance girlfriend, Kennedi. At this point Kennedi was working in medicine and her number became my unofficial rash assistance hotline, every girl’s dream. That evening, I was busy trying to finish off this digital marketing campaign for the client, but the rash was killing me. So I whipped out my iPhone and quickly crafted a text with concise detail on the progress of my rash “arms are a little better, waist is not great, upper legs getting WORSE”, snapped and added a couple pics of the rash, including my dermatitis-afflicted lower stomach and beet red upper thighs.

After 10 minutes I went to check back in with Kennedi - “what are your thoughts?” This text was met with confusion, as she saw no previous texts. That text was met with, in me, a sickening feeling. My heart sank into my bumpy, rash-laden stomach. I know I had sent that text to someone. And it wasn’t Kennedi. Frantically flipping through my texts, my fear grew as I checked off the list of who I hadn’t sent that text to: my mother, my father, any other family member, any close friend. Suddenly, there it was. In my haste, I had sent my rash text to my digital marketing client. Surely this was a 60-year old male business owner right? If only I had been so lucky. It was sent to a mid-20s project manager, who had received this text on a Tuesday evening. She had been blindsided by MULTIPLE images of my nasty rash and an explanation of how it was fiercely spreading on my upper THIGHS. I looked heavenward, questioning God for how He could allow this to happen, also questioning Steve Jobs and his creation of a device where a horror of this magnitude could occur with such a cavalier movement of my leprous fingers.

Before I could send her an explanation (as if any would ever suffice) for this monumental SNAFU - she texted back, “oh yeah, it looks bad”. HAHAHA. Many of you will never understand this combination of digital ego death and unadulterated laughter that flooded my soul beneath my burdened epidermis.

So no, I haven’t sent a text likely to endanger US soldiers on foreign soil, but I have sent a text that threatened the state of mental well being and sent the soldiers of my mind scattering in all directions. In conclusion, be careful on that little tiny keyboard today.