Crackberry fix

I've always been frustrated with middle-aged and older people who refuse to adapt to technology, but I was one of them for a good five years - at least as far as cell phones go. I'm 21 years old, by the way. The other morning, I came into the College Times office with questions prepped for John Melendez, otherwise known as "Stuttering John" from the "Howard Stern Show," for a 10 a.m. interview. Once 10 o'clock passed, I became increasingly more frustrated when he didn't call. 10:15 - no call. 11:30 - no call.

Finally, I received an e-mail from his assistant saying that they attempted to call me twice. Both times the call went straight to voicemail.

I looked down at my old, beaten up phone. I've had some good times with it. Five years of memories live somewhere on that black Cingular flip phone. Sure, it should have been a red flag a couple years ago to get a new phone when Cingular was bought out. But hey, it was working, so it was working for me. That is, until last Friday.

My phone was on, but it wasn't performing any of its necessary functions. The best I could do with it was to look at the picture of my cat on the display and use the calculator. It was finally time to adapt to the real world of modernized cell phones.

Having just graduated from college, I ran to the AT&T store with a gob of graduation cash in hand to find my new baby. I'm not one of those people who are attached to their phone. I've been known to absent-mindedly leave mine in odd places.

But when the salesperson showed me the shiny, gray Blackberry Curve, I couldn't say no. It had everything I loved - internet, e-mail, a QWERTY keyboard. It was just short of being able to bake me a cake and give me a back massage. I had to have it.

I've heard the term "Crackberry" to describe Blackberry users. I've always shrugged off the term. It was applied to workaholics - a label that could never be applied to me once I'm out of the office. But honestly, I can't get enough of this thing. Every time my roommate passes my bedroom in the hallway she laughs at me. She watches me as I diligently type out some meaningless text message to someone who could probably care less, not blinking and barely breathing.

I'm hooked on applications. I'm hooked on Blackberry messenger (because, although I didn't know it, many of my friends are crack addicts too.) I'm able to check every e-mail I ever get from the moment it hits my inbox. It's a little sick to be this connected all the time.

Although, I must say, my Blackberry makes me feel a little important and popular. The little red light is almost constantly flashing on her pretty plastic face.

As I write this, my Blackberry is sitting just to the left of me on my desk. I keep her in my peripheral vision just in case she blinks red and needs me.

For now she sleeps at my side like a little stupid baby, just waiting to ruin my very being. Sleep tight, my sweet.