Don’t call me. Don’t hit me up on my celly – or whatever you damn kids are saying these days. I won’t answer. I don’t think I have actually answered the phone since 2009. I am all over the text message, and I am happy to call people back – but it will be a cold day in hell before I answer my phone again. I don’t even know what my current ring tone is, and to be frank, it doesn’t matter because my phone is always on silent. On the rarest occasion when it isn’t I never realise that it is my phone that is ringing. Some people, I’ve noticed, are tuned in to their ring tone like it’s their child. Me? Well, I’m the neglectful parent phone ownership.
All this harks back to my days of dodging debt collectors. My basic strategy really only boiled down to not answering the phone. That was it. Ignore it and deal with it later – or when I get a court summons, which ever comes second. To be fair, I always eventually paid said bills, just not as promptly as any of the companies would have preferred, which is why I stopped answering my phone.
At first this was limited to blocked numbers or numbers I didn’t recognise. But slowly, it started spreading to anyone, and eventually led to my phone being silenced. Now every time someone rings me, I like to ‘see what they want’ first by listening to their voicemail, or text the send post call. Writing this post has just made me realise – I have no idea why anyone still calls me. For real. Anyone who knows me at all knows I don’t answer my calls without discrimination. Okay, so yes, I have played back many messages that read along the lines of “PICK UP YOUR PHONE YOU STUPID BITCH…” from friends and family, but my compulsion to not answer my phone greatly outweighs any verbal barrage they could hurl over my mobile carrier.
If like me you are also a debt-dodging dirt-bag, you will understand the fear of seeing blocked numbers appear for day’s on end in your call log. I have even gone so far as to, when the phone rings, freeze in place – like they might be able to hear my footfalls through the phone somehow, and if I am perfectly still they will think that I have legitimately missed the call, rather than avoiding the call like a pick-up ‘artist’ in a bar (or any setting really).
As of 2012, I am now paid up member of the paying-my-bills-mostly-on-time club. I haven’t had to worry about debt collectors, or as they are now called, ‘collection agencies’ for years. But the fear lingers on, and there probably isn’t enough therapy in the world to cure it.
 Totes. Amazeballs. These words need to be killed with fire. I know Shakespeare made up a lot of words and phrases but YOU ARE NOT THE BARD. Stop butchering the English language. Or one day you will find yourself on the business end of a mighty walloping with hardback editions of ‘Swann’s Way’ – after which you will be made to read it.
 Which sounds a little like I murdered it.
 In quotey-quotes because I believe artist is too good a title for these purveyors of douche.
 Why do we do that – change the name of things, to what, make them seem like something they aren’t. Collections agencies, debt reconciliation services – call it what it is – busting balls for cash. Also, do people working in the field EVER believe any of the excuses given to them. It must be the most cynic making job in the entire world.