I never pick up my phone.
I mean, never.
No, not even if I know whose calling.
No, not even if it’s a text message.
I used to check my voicemail about once a month, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, but I’ve stopped that too.
It’s not that I’m paranoid – I’m not afraid of telemarketers, stalkers, lizard people trying to hijack my brain through the cellular signal – none of that bothers me.
Well, that last one does, just a little bit.
I’m also not taking some kind of stand. There is no “Man” I’m trying to stick it too.
I don’t belong to some lobby or think tank working to strong arm the government into changing its policy on two-way communication between consenting humans.
I neither own an axe, nor have any desire to grind one.
I actually like phones, I like them quite a lot.
I pay for this thing with my cellular provider, so that every year I can trade in my old brick, for a shiny new one with all the latest bits and bobs.
I mostly use them to watch videos of cats and take pictures of my food, which makes me happier than it really should.
What doesn’t make me happy is picking up my phone.
The reason is pretty simple.
If I pick up my phone, I have to talk to people, and people scare me more than anything else in this world.