Displaced

The auto-complete saga continues:

I type, “Heya!” My phone pulls up, “Hats!” I like the enthusiasm and I do love hats, but M will think I’m weird sending her that at 7AM.

I type, “YES.” My phone types, “GET.”

Yes, all right. I’ll get a hat. I’ll put one on right now. Will you let me call the shots if I’m wearing a hat, you ##(*@#! phone?

Overheard: “When I was in rehab, I drank Listerine and, in the spirit of rigorous honesty, I revised my day count.”

That sounds like the statement of a rigorously honest man. Unfortunately, the man’s voice sounds like the voice of a middle-aged jerk who probably doesn’t call his kids on their birthdays.

Another few steps ahead:

She stands four feet away from him, her body already half-turned towards the subway stairs, “Well…thanks for dinner!” He looks disappointed.

No kiss.

I try to type, “I’m at Pegu,” into my phone. My phone suggests, “I’m at Orgies.” No. I’m not. Stop it, phone.

I was trying to text R (who’s on a train to Baltimore) about how fantastic Tina Fey looked presenting for the screenplay awards and my phone suggested “Tuna Dry”. I hate my phone.