In his La Dolce Vita column in the Village Voice, Michael Musto nails – fingernails – the problem with texting:
Can I just say how much I detest texting? It’s a technological travesty and a logistical nightmare that’s wearing down my will to live. A simple call would resolve all pertinent issues—what are we doing, where, why, etc.—in a matter of seconds, but instead you’re forced to engage in an Olympic typing battle that takes giant chunks out of your day while making your knuckles sore, just to eke out a simple “going out tonight.” What’s worse, you meant that as a query, but since you have no idea how to type a question mark, it’s a wasted exchange; your friend promptly responds “that’s nice” and powers off (as you marvel that he knew how to do an apostrophe).
Clicking on each key several times just to get the letter you want—and then going back to try it again when you overshoot—is an absolute torture, and when your phone bill ends up three times the normal rate because you sent casual acquaintances indispensable messages like “how r u,” you want to do a NAOMI CAMPBELL and hit someone over the head with the cell. Is it any wonder that the horrors of texting may have led to the death of five cheerleaders in that fiery car crash? And yet . . . there is something sexy and exciting about hearing that jingle that says someone cared enough to do all that typing and backspacing just to tell you something inane. I say let’s keep texting, but only when we’re in a club where you can’t actually call over the music. Alas, that’s always where I am anyway. Waa. Why me question mark.