Imagine my dismay at turning on my cellphone to find that all my text messages have been wiped out. Inbox (0) Outbox (0).
Over two years worth of dirtysweetlovin communiqués are just gone. I'm heartbroken. The wintry morning greetings on the Scarborough LRT, the sultry summer night kisses, the occasional gems from my closest of friends, the countless I love you's, the endless you're beautiful's, the misspellings that made me laugh out loud:
"im head over heals in love w u my queen."
Oh my heart.
Texting's become a way of speaking that I've loved getting used to. Each message window a place of performance; every line an opportunity to excite. How to write porn in 160 characters or less.
Yeah sure, ephemera and all that. Satellite signals, digital dispatches—brief, faint and insubstantial. Text messaging is a fire-and-forget medium. But maybe that's why I'm so disoriented, a sensation I could never have expected. Erased now are moments that had already been forgotten.
But I do remember this: for a few days last summer I needed to leave my phone 'in the shop' and I'm sure whoever worked on it peeked into my Inbox. Who wouldn't? I liked to pretend that whoever they were got a pleasant surpise at finding dirtysweet flirting between two hot chicks who are SO freakin' hot for each other. And I secretly believed that—having read hundreds of messages without a single meanspirited word—they went home that night and turned their marriage around.
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