Alright, so I totally bought into the paranoia…
I talk on my cell phone a lot lately. It’s one of those things that come with having a long distance girlfriend. Since the third of this month, I’ve logged a good 19 hours; I swear, in some of those longer conversations, my wee phone heats up more than a 13 year old boy with a toaster in his pants at a Britney Spears concert. It would seem that holding a small, painfully warm device (capable of somehow working with dishes and satellites to beam my voice 1800 miles away) up to my head for several hours can’t be healthy. For a couple weeks there I all but expected to wake up with some sort of evil, mutant twin head growing out of my shoulder ala Army of Darkness.
Anyway, now when I have prolonged conversations with Tabatha, I sport this awful headset. I look like some sort of shirtless, low-rent telemarketer wandering around the apartment. Sure, it serves it purpose of preventing my early death due to ENORMOUS THROBBING BRAIN LESIONS, but its most obvious product is the mocking laughter it elicits from my fellow apartment chimps. I suppose it’s better than the alternative; I either put up with the mockery of a few folks or nightly shove a glowing stick of telephone up to my head and set it to “penetrating radiation wave saut鮢 Just try tell me I made the wrong choice.
Now I just have to deal with the possibility that some time, years from now, scientists will discover that cell phone radiation increases IQ, makes teeth whiter, promotes useful development of webbed fingers and toes, and causes nipples to emit bright beams of light that prevent those loud, painful, and embarrassing nighttime mishaps like violently ramming the groin into a coffee table while looking for the can.
Well, with that joyful image, I bid you all adieu.