Brett Buckner: You’ll regret the text, Mr. X
Nov 11, 2012 | 1156 views |  0 comments | 7 7 recommendations | email to a friend | print
The Diva burst out of her room brimming with the kind of fury usually reserved for natural disasters.

Rather than global warming, the catalyst for this ruinous mood: the ex-boyfriend. Mr. X (as he shall henceforth be known) had taken to “creeping,” and “blowing up” The Diva’s cell phone with an endless barrage of text message and phone calls at all hours.

The Diva arose to some 15 text messages in varying degrees of anger, sorrow and pleading desperation, along with a multitude of voicemail messages of the same emotional tenor, leading to loud, expletive-laden arguments that poisoned an otherwise sunny disposition.

Honestly, I feel bad for the dude. Not because he got dumped — everybody needs a good dumping; it keeps us humble and teaches us not to be reckless with the hearts of others. Rather, I feel sorry for Mr. X because of the way modern technology is taking advantage of his fragile state, allowing him to make mistakes that’ll survive long after he’s forgotten why he was so wounded in the first place.

Cell phones are evil.

Oh sure, they’re convenient with their instant gratification via text message and email, Facebook and Instagrams. But cell phones, in the hands of a heartbroken teenager, are harbingers of humiliation.

Back in my day, I learned the rules of the post-dating the hard way … and without a restraining order. My generation had to use the house phone, and after getting hung up on five or six times, somebody’s Daddy was gonna answer the phone and give you an earful.

There was none of this cowering behind cell phones and well-orchestrated text messages quoting Coldplay lyrics. Once an angry Daddy threatened to call YOUR momma, that pretty much killed any avenue of communication.

I even remember writing these things called “letters” — where you’d record thoughts and feelings on pieces of paper and mail them to some little heartbreaker to read at a later date.

Fortunately, in the time it took to find her address, get an envelope, lick a stamp and walk out to the curb, I realized just how pathetic I sounded and found the good sense to keep such blubberings to myself.

Thanks to cell phones, kids today have no such saving grace. Feel it. Type it. Send it. Regret it. Stupidity at the speed of thought, and there ain’t no gettin’ that sucker back.

And if you’ve got eyes on any of her/his friends for a little revenge hook-up, forget that, because your dopey musings will be forwarded to every Facebook friend you shared — and some you didn’t.

And if it’s really bad, embarrassing stuff, she might even go so far as to print it out, lock it away in a special place to read and laugh at years from now.

Granted, none of this is nearly as embarrassing as, say, driving by your ex-girlfriend’s house, seeing her new boyfriend’s car in the driveway, beating on the door, demanding to be let in, trying to beat up the new boyfriend, being thrown out by an annoyed daddy and left screaming insults from the curb.

Or so I’ve heard.

If I could offer Mr. X a bit of advice from someone who’s been there/regretted that: just think. This pain will pass, girlfriends come and go, but dignity in the eyes of others is hard to restore, especially when they’ve got a file labeled “Stupid Stuff You Said.”

This is one natural disaster that can be avoided.

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com.
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