First Posted: 7/13/2014
I believe it was Helen Keller that said once you go black, you never go back. Sure, she was talking about her vision, but she had a solid point — just ask the Kardashians, the woman that wears the same velour jumpsuit all the time and delivers my newspaper a day late from a rusted minivan, and me. That’s right! I went black. Even though I tried running back, I recently found myself going back to black.
I guess this story really starts last year when I did the greatest thing I have ever done for my sex life. I upgraded from a BlackBerry to an iPhone. As a guy in my 20’s, being seen holding an old Blackberry at a bar was as damaging to my sex appeal as having an erectile dysfunction or a receding hairline. I looked as out of touch with the times as Jeff Walker sounds on the radio.
Not only did holding an iPhone finally make me look like I belonged in this decade, it aided my social-development skills. I suddenly found myself hashtagging like it was my job, taking selfies at least five times a day before I even brushed my teeth in the morning, and when it came to a meal that looked delicious — forget it. I would let that sucker get cold before I’d go without a great snap of it.
Life was good.
Then my discovery for Tinder came along. Changed my life. #Deadasstho
I suddenly found myself with an appetite to travel the world just so I could find new Tinder matches.
This new lifestyle I had grown accustomed to came to a shattering end when I was having a dance battle at Club Evolution inside The Woodlands with a girl that looks exactly like Shailene Woodley from “Divergent”.
She was friends with a buddy of mine who came from out of state to visit me and attend a taping of my online talk show, “The Millennials.” She looked and sounded so much like Woodley that we even had her pretend to be Shailene in a Snapchat that I sent to people who didn’t come to my show to make them feel like they missed out.
Naturally, as I do with every celebrity look-a-like I encounter, I challenged her to a dance battle.
I was in the zone and so determined to win the battle that I set my phone and drink down so I could go wild with my moves.
A few minutes later I realized that my phone wasn’t in my pocket. I had forgotten to pick it up when I sat it down to dance with the Shailene Woodley doppelganger.
By the time I realized my iPhone wasn’t with me it was too late. Someone stole the phone.
“I’d rather be missing a testicle,” I cried to the bartender two hours and endless shots of Rumpleminze later.
The next afternoon, while hanging out at The Woodlands pool with my friends, I decided to lighten the mood of my sudden depression by pushing one of my friends in the pool.
It turned out he had his phone in his pocket, and I was responsible for it’s destruction.
I was even more upset because now I had to replace two phones, which would have been difficult for me to swing as an unemployed YouTube talk show host.
After putting his phone in rice for several hours, my friend’s phone started working again.
“Don’t you feel better that you don’t have to replace two phones now?” he texted me later that night.
“No!”, I texted back. “I’m now stuck using my old BlackBerry, and I vowed I’d never go back to black.”
W
