The amount of time I spend looking on my phone for just the right icon to accompany a text message is something I’m sure to regret on my deathbed, yet I am powerless to stop. In fact, it is possible that in the final moments of my life, in a weakened state, my body racked with some virus of the future that originated in China (because China has pig farms on bird migration routes and the birds drink the polluted, poopy water and thus incubate new and powerful viruses), I will be scrolling through to find that one icon that is a poop with eyes. Because it cracks me up every time. Because I’m ten. And it does not matter if I’m texting about a Blue Jays game, what time I’ll be home, or something that happened to me on the bus. A random poop will be inserted somewhere.
And my loved ones will say, “Well, he died doing what he loved: sending us a picture that only slightly relates to the writing it accompanies.”
I hope it doesn’t come to that, but really, what choice do I have?