Unlike Eliot’s coffee spoons, it seems that most of our modern lives are measured out in two-year cell phone contracts. The amount of anxiety I feel at the approach of this telephonic event horizon is way out of proportion to its importance. I waver between iPhone and noPhone. With a newly-minted middle school daughter, giving up cell phone contact altogether seems unwise, and I’m sure, would be unforgiveable. And yet, the prospect of adding unlimited texting to my already ginormous Verizon calling plan fills me with terror. Like The Blob, every time I look away and then look back, my bill has grown. My plan must change to assimilate more and more features. Voice, data, texting, insurance, multiple lines, taxes and fees, etc. Like the sad humans, enslaved by their robot overlords in The Matrix, it feels as though there is a digital umbilical cord, attached to the base of my neck (or in this case, my checking account) that sucks my money away into the ether. And after another two-year contract, what would I have to show for it? Some snarky tweets and hundreds of long-forgotten phone calls? Which leads me to think that I should just chuck it all and expend my energy, which at 45 years old seems to be shrinking by the year, on something I have always wanted to do: becoming a real writer. Not the one-hitter types on Facebook and Twitter. A real writer. One that perhaps uses a pen. I have a friend, a novelist, who essentially gave up reading for two years so he could summon all his available energies teaching himself how to write. Maybe by freeing myself from my 4G LTE tether, I can leave the snark behind and create something that will be longer than 140 characters and last longer than an invisible conversation.