Okay, okay, FINE.

Late this afternoon, for no apparent reason, I decided to dump a glass of orange juice in my lap. Why did I do this? I don't really know. Ask Crazy Limbs. At any rate, now there is a pair of shorts with a wet crotch hanging in the bathroom (designed to freak out my roommate should she come home and see them), as well as a mobile phone that shorts out if you actually try to use it, thereby limiting all texts to about ten rapid characters and removing calling capabilities almost altogether. It turns itself off rather arbitrarily. Like, "Ooh, she pushed a button! POWER DOWN!" However, given that Old Boy is currently being held together with a rubber band and his surface is so cracked and chipped it looks like I wake up every morning and throw him down the stairs for fun, it may be time to give in and replace him anyway. In the meantime, if you text me and (gasp!) I don't answer, no, I'm not dead. I'm an idiot.