I am obsessed with deleting my text messages so much that it is beginning to interfere with my social life. My friends will send me a message on where to meet for drinks, and I will immediately delete it. Then, five minutes later, when I am running around the city trying to remember the name of that stupid bar, I have no way of referencing it. But I have to play it safe. âÄúDidnâÄôt you get my text?âÄù my friend asks when I finally call for directions. âÄúYes, but I deleted it,âÄù I explain. âÄúWhy?âÄù she says, and her voice is sticky with offense. Nowadays, the act of deleting oneâÄôs text message without response is the same as physically turning your back on a friend in the midst of a conversation. I donâÄôt agree with this metaphor, but my reasoning is complex, so instead, I wander off with, âÄúWell, you know âĦâÄù âÄúNo, actually, I donâÄôt know,âÄù she cuts in, followed by, âÄúIf you have something to say, why donâÄôt you say it to my face?âÄù ItâÄôs an ironic statement given the fact that she was the one who began texting me in the first place. The truth is, I am worried that text messaging may become the only lasting legacy of our present civilization. The cavemen drew elaborate paintings, the Egyptians made hieroglyphics, yet when the world (supposedly) ends in 2012, my guess is that all that will be left of us is our cell phones, laden with 160 character-bits of bulls—. âÄúHi, what r u doing? Bored n kmstry class. Drinks 2night?âÄù âÄúThngs just arnt d same nemore. We shld go r seprte ways. I want 2b single again. What do u think?âÄù âÄúRofl. I just got milk stuck n my nose!âÄù Without realizing it, we could very well be writing our own Anais Nin memoirs, only in a much slower and vastly inarticulate manner. Thus, I have taken matters into my own hands and out of the control of my publisher, AT&T. Like a serious writer in the midst of my final revision, I selectively respond to and delete my text messages as I deem relevant. I am creating my post-mortem persona âĦ and she is going to be an absolute sex fiend. Yes, thatâÄôs right. Never mind that I need to go grocery shopping, work on my group project or that I am looking for a ride to my hair appointment in Uptown; these messages will not appear in my inbox in 2077. Instead, you will read âÄúI miss you,âÄù âÄúI love youâÄù and âÄúI want to jump your bones.âÄù Because in my opinion, the only outlet that text messaging is useful for is âÄúsexting.âÄù Everything else you should have the balls or consideration to say in person. And by âÄúsexting,âÄù IâÄôm talking strictly vocabulary, not visual porno. Everyone knows the latter is a risk not worth taking, but a few saucy electronic words throughout your school day is the modern day equivalent of leaving a note under her pillow or a condom in the back pocket of his blue jeans. ItâÄôs subtle, but it leaves the other feeling excited to see you next. So, dear friends and lovers, if you want to talk to me about anything else, for GodâÄôs sake, call me. I canâÄôt be bothered to spend 20 minutes hacking out my thoughts on a keypad built for mice when there isnâÄôt going to be any kind of physical climax at the end. And if your sentences arrive all mutilated and pygmy-esque, crying out in agony for their absence of vowels, IâÄôm cutting you out of my memoir entirely. You can sleep alone tonight. Additionally, I would like to clarify that âÄúsextingâÄù is only permissible after the first point of contact. If I leave a guy my number after a night out and he chooses to contact me first by text message, forget it. Yes, I know itâÄôs hard to communicate with girls, but if you canâÄôt muster enough manliness to have one phone conversation with a person of interest, I donâÄôt even want to fathom what your lack of confidence is like in the bedroom. Lately, IâÄôve been receiving such text messages in Spanish, much to the annoyance of my co-workers, because I always have to ask: âÄúWhat does âÄòacariciarmeâÄô mean?âÄù âÄúSeriously, Ashley? Gross,âÄù they reply, looking up from a lesson plan. âÄúIt means âÄòcaress me.âÄô Who are you talking to like that on a Wednesday morning?âÄù As if it was me, not the Latin lover steaming up my cell phone. Now, to avoid being labeled a slut while still achieving understanding, I have to use a dictionary, and unfortunately, there are rarely functional direct translations for talking dirty. For example, âÄúdame mimosâÄù is another way to say âÄúcaress meâÄù in Spanish, but it translates directly to the English âÄúgive me mimesâÄù âÄî not very kinky. Or perhaps far too kinky. I digress. Can you imagine if everyone switched over to the âÄúsexts-onlyâÄù plan? WeâÄôd rewrite history. âÄúDue to the study of their only remaining artifact, the cell phone, it appears that the previous inhabitants of the seven continents simultaneously evolved into the United Nations of Nymphomaniacs.âÄù âÄúCause of decline is unknown, but scientists support a theory based on death by excessive pleasure.âÄù Weighing in on the legitimacy of the 2012 end-of-the-world theory rooted in the Mayan calendar, a friend recited a favorite joke: âÄúThe Mayans smoked a lot of plants. A couple of guys could have been working on that calendar for hours, completely stoned off their heads âĦ And when they reached the year 2012, they just got lazy and quit. And here we are, a hundred years later, working ourselves into a panic.âÄù So forget about finals for once âÄî whether it be that last Day of Reckoning or your exams. I propose we all sit back, relax, and begin the âÄúsextualâÄù revolution. SEND. Ashley Dresser welcomes comments at [email protected].