disconnecting

Like many young people, I am slightly technologically dependent. More specifically, I am entirely too attached to my phone. I'm the guy who typically responds to your texts seconds after you press send. Years ago, friends would clown me for answering the ringing phone and holding lengthy yet incoherent conversations while asleep.

I used to answer the phone during sex.

You get the point.

I've relaxed a bit since then.

At any given moment, my phone is within reach so that I don't miss a beat (or email) anywhere. There is no running to the store while my phone charges on the counter at home. I will risk being late to work (or anywhere) to go back home for my phone if forgotten.

There are probably larger, deeper social explanations for this. Maybe I rely too heavily on technology to supplement a lack of local interactions. Perhaps I rely on gadgets and communication portals as a social lubricant or ice breaker of sorts.

Whatever the case, as of this Friday, I'm ditching my US phone number. For the first time in ten years, I'll willingly be out of the reach of many people I'm used to contacting in seconds. I'll have email, but it's not quite the same as text messaging.

I am disconnecting.

Kinda.

I'll have a Panamanian phone number, and data on the Blackberry. If you get the new digits, and you call me from abroad, you had better be dying or in labor.

This is new for me, the phonewhore. When my screen broke a few weeks back, I was essentially phoneless for three days. Struggle much? I need to be able to ask my Mama what color dish soap to buy and manage an imaginary heaux shit calendar. For those few days, I was an unwilling temporary Bronx resident, trapped in a piss-scented pit of Nextel-esque despair. A BET employee with dreams of career advancement and paychecks that don't bounce. I was basically dead.

I say all of this to say that what is to come is an adventure in every sense of the word. Not being able to pick up the phone and tell (insert friend) about some tragic, unloved soul who crossed my path will be new. But, as with everything else, I welcome the challenges.

In moving to Panama, I don't want to be concerned with what delusional athlete baby drinker-turned-instaCeleb did what with which ex-convict closet homosexual rapper. I don't want to be on the computer as much, checking in on my social media sites 10 times daily. I want to live in the moment, not worrying myself with tweeting life's every awesome or awkward event. This past week, I fought with myself to avoid tweeting and shit during dinner with Mom & Dad or going in on my negro sister's blue contacts during what was our last time seeing each other for the forseeable future. No more.

So, you'll see less of me online.

This site will always be here, though. In fact, look out for some changes around here. I will be thoroughly documenting my travels and experiences, so don't fret. I will be using Skype more than before. And smoke signals. And gchat and the like.

Add me on Skype: chrisalexander_
Add me on Gchat: chris.alexander3

Or email me via the button at the top of the page.

I'd love to hear from you while I'm out humping locals in the jungles of Panama and such. Fire up that webcam and show your boy some titties and peen and what not. Or something.

Note: Panama is not a burrough of Mexico. It's not "right up under" Mexico. It's not "pretty much just like Mexico," either. Nor is it an island in the Pacific. So, yeah. More on this later.

At any rate, I'll be around. We'll still talk. Just maybe not as much.

And that's just fine.

See you around.