Call Me?

call me?
7.35 PM.

For the first time in my life, I realize a phone was nothing but a killer. A killer acting on your boredom. A killer haunting your freedom. A killer designated for your love.

Sitting here on the huge bean couch with a cordless phone in hand. Starring blankly at the numbers on the keypad. Nothing goes through the mind but a question with two words.

Call me?

8:12 PM.

Switching from channel to channel. News, sports and soap dramas. A big bang goes off in the brain. Silence.

Is it just me or has the most ancient human communication been destroyed by advance technology and mechanical stuff? Talk. Oh, yes. That action whereby your brain transmits, analyze and sorts out the data and gives the signal for you to open your pretty mouth to speak. Human language. Perhaps this has nothing to do with technology. I mean, hey, we still talk using the phone. Maybe I should push the blame to the rest of the technology population.

Hang on a second.

Or was it the books and magazines consuming up your time? Damn, when did you turn a complete bookworm on us? I know you like to read. But, to that extent? Did you remember to breathe, eat or even shower? You should have look away from your book for a second, see the phone and think about me. Then do what you should do after you saw the phone.

Now, where the hell did those come from?

I am slowly wasting away while thinking of crazy and unrelated possibilities as to why you still won't pick up the goddamn phone. I guess you are proving to me that they are related. I bet Albert Estein will be here to argue on this subject with either you or me. It's related to science after all. But he's dead. And you're not.

So. Prove to me that they are not related.

Call me.

9:58 PM.

Chewing at the last slice of pizza. Phone still in the other hand. Downing a can of beer.

I'm not going to think anymore. I'll just sit here and stuff myself up. Yeah, I'll make myself chubbier so that I can lie to myself that you're bearing the idea of wanting to walk away from me. Because I'm fat. I know how much you dislike it when I always think that you're going to left me. I just know it.

Oh, shit. Did that little quarrel we have before I left for the promotional tour affecting us? Oh man, but you can't blame me like this. I see you flirting with that skunk ass reporter. How would you feel if I am the one who is doing it? Are you going to deny the fact that you are not going to act like me? If you say yes, then I will brand you as the biggest hypocrite in this fucking universe.

Damn it. Where the hell are you? I'm back from the tour already. You promised to call as soon as I am back.

CALL ME!

10:37 PM.

You son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Asshole. Bastard. Prick. And all those words that can be used to describe a creature like you. Oh. You've already succeeded in turning me into a total potty mouth. Damn you.

Where in this god damned fucking world are you? Is your phone turning a bitch on you? Or the rest of the phones on this huge ass planet are not working? I'll be damned if that ever happen. Mine is working and so should yours.

I just want to hear your voice. Right now. It has been almost two months ever since we have talk. That's ridiculous. You ought to know that. Each time I tried to call, all I ever get was that highly annoying ringing without your voice.

And I'm just here, waiting stupidly and expecting a cassette tape or anything with your voice on it. But, none. You only send me a stupid piece of paper with your almost unreadable handwriting when I'm away. You're not going to learn anything Shakespeare, you hear me? None of those cheesy ass lines from the famous tragedies of Shakespeare. God, I hate those. I don't mean I hate Shakespeare's work. It was as if people can't be original enough and have to copy. I love you and you should be original, deal?

You've got to work on your handwriting too, you know? Maybe I should just go learn about graphology. That should help me to figure out whatever your handwriting is trying to say about you. If it says that you're a cheater, you can forget what I've said. I mean, about working on your handwriting. I'm just going to dump you before you did.

Just call me, you weasel.

11:54 PM.

All right. It's almost midnight now.

Have you been trying to hit on girls? Should I be picturing you on a bed in a hotel with a whore whom you have picked up from the street? Well, I wish you the best of luck that you will not get any disease. If you do, I will just laugh right at your face because you deserve it. Who ever instruct you to go and fuck them? Did your brain just move to North Pole and froze? By the way, is North Pole making you sweat because that pole place is not cold enough?

Man, I really don't understand what is going on that make me fall so hard for you. I must have own you something in our previous life. Whatever it was, I hope I have already returned them to you. I'm so sick of this game that you have set up already. Who do you think you are? Some genius mastermind behind the biggest deceive plot on a lover in music history? I'm sorry but I'm not going to let you pull that on me.

I'm not going to let you win. Not like this. Not because of a stupid reason. Not because you haven't call me. Yet.

12:02 AM.

The phone rang.
Feedback

Name:

E-Mail Address:

Write here:

7.35 PM.

For the first time in my life, I realize a phone was nothing but a killer. A killer acting on your boredom. A killer haunting your freedom. A killer designated for your love.

Sitting here on the huge bean couch with a cordless phone in hand. Starring blankly at the numbers on the keypad. Nothing goes through the mind but a question with two words.

Call me?

8:12 PM.

Switching from channel to channel. News, sports and soap dramas. A big bang goes off in the brain. Silence.

Is it just me or has the most ancient human communication been destroyed by advance technology and mechanical stuff? Talk. Oh, yes. That action whereby your brain transmits, analyze and sorts out the data and gives the signal for you to open your pretty mouth to speak. Human language. Perhaps this has nothing to do with technology. I mean, hey, we still talk using the phone. Maybe I should push the blame to the rest of the technology population.

Hang on a second.

Or was it the books and magazines consuming up your time? Damn, when did you turn a complete bookworm on us? I know you like to read. But, to that extent? Did you remember to breathe, eat or even shower? You should have look away from your book for a second, see the phone and think about me. Then do what you should do after you saw the phone.

Now, where the hell did those come from?

I am slowly wasting away while thinking of crazy and unrelated possibilities as to why you still won't pick up the goddamn phone. I guess you are proving to me that they are related. I bet Albert Estein will be here to argue on this subject with either you or me. It's related to science after all. But he's dead. And you're not.

So. Prove to me that they are not related.

Call me.

9:58 PM.

Chewing at the last slice of pizza. Phone still in the other hand. Downing a can of beer.

I'm not going to think anymore. I'll just sit here and stuff myself up. Yeah, I'll make myself chubbier so that I can lie to myself that you're bearing the idea of wanting to walk away from me. Because I'm fat. I know how much you dislike it when I always think that you're going to left me. I just know it.

Oh, shit. Did that little quarrel we have before I left for the promotional tour affecting us? Oh man, but you can't blame me like this. I see you flirting with that skunk ass reporter. How would you feel if I am the one who is doing it? Are you going to deny the fact that you are not going to act like me? If you say yes, then I will brand you as the biggest hypocrite in this fucking universe.

Damn it. Where the hell are you? I'm back from the tour already. You promised to call as soon as I am back.

CALL ME!

10:37 PM.

You son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Asshole. Bastard. Prick. And all those words that can be used to describe a creature like you. Oh. You've already succeeded in turning me into a total potty mouth. Damn you.

Where in this god damned fucking world are you? Is your phone turning a bitch on you? Or the rest of the phones on this huge ass planet are not working? I'll be damned if that ever happen. Mine is working and so should yours.

I just want to hear your voice. Right now. It has been almost two months ever since we have talk. That's ridiculous. You ought to know that. Each time I tried to call, all I ever get was that highly annoying ringing without your voice.

And I'm just here, waiting stupidly and expecting a cassette tape or anything with your voice on it. But, none. You only send me a stupid piece of paper with your almost unreadable handwriting when I'm away. You're not going to learn anything Shakespeare, you hear me? None of those cheesy ass lines from the famous tragedies of Shakespeare. God, I hate those. I don't mean I hate Shakespeare's work. It was as if people can't be original enough and have to copy. I love you and you should be original, deal?

You've got to work on your handwriting too, you know? Maybe I should just go learn about graphology. That should help me to figure out whatever your handwriting is trying to say about you. If it says that you're a cheater, you can forget what I've said. I mean, about working on your handwriting. I'm just going to dump you before you did.

Just call me, you weasel.

11:54 PM.

All right. It's almost midnight now.

Have you been trying to hit on girls? Should I be picturing you on a bed in a hotel with a whore whom you have picked up from the street? Well, I wish you the best of luck that you will not get any disease. If you do, I will just laugh right at your face because you deserve it. Who ever instruct you to go and fuck them? Did your brain just move to North Pole and froze? By the way, is North Pole making you sweat because that pole place is not cold enough?

Man, I really don't understand what is going on that make me fall so hard for you. I must have own you something in our previous life. Whatever it was, I hope I have already returned them to you. I'm so sick of this game that you have set up already. Who do you think you are? Some genius mastermind behind the biggest deceive plot on a lover in music history? I'm sorry but I'm not going to let you pull that on me.

I'm not going to let you win. Not like this. Not because of a stupid reason. Not because you haven't call me. Yet.

12:02 AM.

The phone rang.