My nine-year-old is obviously the only person in the world who truly loves me, because it was he who finally staged a much needed intervention. “Momma,” he said, glaring at my drug dealer, I mean, Motorola Atrix, “you are on that thing twenty-four seven!”
“Huh? Oh, Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetie.”
“Momma, it’s St. Patrick’s Day.”
I read, ahm on-line from my phone, recently that “All it takes to be a writer is 3% hard work and 97% staying off the internet.” True dat, I guess, though I’m sure there’s a bit more to the equation if one is aspiring to be not only a writer, but published author/decent parent as well.
For now, I’m off the juice. I’m taking one day at a time and resisting the urge to start up half-a-dozen games or more at a time with random strangers. I’m trying not to fantasize about “Z” word combinations overlaying triple letter and triple word tiles, trying not to feverishly google the definitions of words like QI and FEH merely to use them to taunt my opponents in the “chat” box, trying to ignore the phantom trill my pusher emits when it’s “my turn” one hundred times per day.
Jack Attack says my addiction has harmed him in the following ways:
1. “You missed four weeks of Star Wars, The Clone Wars episodes, but don’t worry, I DVRed them for ya’. It’s just gonna take me longer to explain to you what happened afterwards. Sometimes I think you don’t know nuffin’ about Star Wars, The Clone Wars, Momma.”
2. “There are no snacks, and I mean NO snacks, in the house besides those weird, orange stick things in the refrigerator….They’re Carrots?...What the…?... Momma, I cain’t eat rabbit food for a snack.”
3. “I cain’t understand half the stuff you say, Momma. What the heck does ‘feh’ mean anyway?”
I hope that in time he’ll be able to forgive me.