Tleexting: Texting while sleep impaired. (This is not an actual term. I coined it here and now. The patent office hasn’t even been notified yet. Don’t use this in casual conversation or look it up on Urban Dictionary. You’ll look like a fool.)
Life lessons obtained yesterday:
Lesson 1: Sleep is very, very good. Possibly even essential.
Lesson 2: If sleep cannot be obtained, communication ought not be attempted.
Lesson 3: Especially via text.
I can’t remember how it began, but below are verbatim quotes–complete with italicized commentary–from a conversation carried on between myself and an exceedingly patient friend (or “EPF”) last night, courtesy of the mental crash that occurs after a 48-hour homework-and-caffeine binge.
Note: No alcohol or drugs were harmed in the ruining of this reputation.
It began innocently:
EPF: [“If this is about [name withheld to protect privacy], I’d be happy to entertain that conversation. He’s freakishly thoughtful; he even did my dishes.”]
Me: “Oh. Please entertain that conversation. It’s looking bored.
Me: “Would you believe this is the most coherent I’ve bbfn in ages? I’m so prove.”
EPF: “Did you just intentionally send me a giant load of irony?”
Me: “Huh? No. Very little in my life is intentional just now.”
EPF: “Look through your sent messages. The one about coherence. It starts, “would you believe”
Me: “Ha. Moss.”
Me: “Oops. Now double that.”
Me: “[Person previously talked about] strikes me as one of the people types you has depth well conceiea beneapui humor.”
Me: “Also, i should be his friend. I have fries.”
EPF: “1. Your texting has never been as bad as it is tonight (and that’s saying something!) 2. That’s a pretty accurate assessment, I would say.”
Me: “What?! My keying is awesome. Like a corp. A freaking BOSS, I tell you.”
EPF: “Please tell me there is someone there to witness your current state. You have fries?”
Me: “Oh. Oops. Dishes. I have dishes. That are often confused for piers.”
EPF: “A corp?”
EPF: “Your dishes are confused for piers? Are those kept near the fries?” That–that was just cruel.
Me: “I’m all alone. Bentley came in a bit ago and locked up the medicine cabinet. She thinks i’m high.”
Me: “Boss. Not corp. Boss. Get with it dude.”
EPF: “ah. Well I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re either wearing mittens or in desperate need of sleep. Probably both.”
EPF: “I should get with your typing like a corp, a freaking boss, eh?”
Me: “I’m texting with my tongue. And only the lef side. I like a challenge.”
Me: “. . .You clearly don’t text like a corp OR a corp.” So there. Imbecile.
EPF: “Are you still running on just 40 minutes of sleep?”
Me: “Naycaffeine. Whee!!”
Me: “I can’t sleep. And this is more fun. I giggle”
EPF: “It really makes me sad on the inside that no one is witnessing you in this state.”
Me: I’m giggilf. Hee. So happy. [Name of random person who has no bearing whatsoever on my day-to-day life]. What to do with him. . .” Giggilf=Worst. Alter ego. Ever.
Me: “I don’t know why, but I feel very rumorly that something should be done with him.” Oy vey.
Me: “What if i don’t wake up?” It’s not tleexting if one party doesn’t abruptly try to wax philosophical.
Me: “There’s a serial killer on my computer.”
EPF: “You feel very rumorly? And wake up when, in the morning? Also, serial killers are bad: explanations, however, are quite nice.”
Me: “Strongly. With strength. Is how i feel. And i might sleeep too long tomorrow. And hey, i normally text well! And serial killers are gross. I don’t think i would ever counsel them.”
Me: “You should never pound on the wall when a serial killer is concerned. Go to bed.”
EPF: “I’ma need you to explain the serial killer bit.”
Me: “If you sound on the wall, he’ll hear you.” This point just can’t be driven home enough. If you think there is a serial killer within hearing distance of you, don’t pound on the wall. Any wall. That just won’t end well.
Me: “Tiger! It’s a tiger! Not a serial killer. What a relief.”
EPF: “What serial killer are we talking about?
Me: “It’s not a serial killer. It’s a tiger trafficker. I just TOLD you, that, EPF! I only thought it was a serial killer because there are bloody knives. Do tiger traffickers serial kill tigers? Why would you do that? What good is a dead tiger?”
EPF: “Is this a website you’re looking at for homework?”
Me: “WHAT?!” The memory of homework is obviously a little too fresh for me.
Me: “Smiling old women are even creepies than serial killers. Especially when they’re tiger traffickers.” But not even homework can move me past the exceedingly important topic of tiger trafficking.
EPF: “You’re not allowed to be confused right now. You’ve been texting me about tiger traffickers and serial killers and sounding walls!”
Me: “Sounding walls? What’s a sounding wall? Like one that talks? I want spinach.”
EPF: “I was quoting something you’d said earlier. Forget that. Talk to me about tiger traffickers and serial killers.”
Me: “Sounding walls. Interesting. I was watchmi castle. And there were tiger trafficker serial killers. But i still don’t know why.”
Me: “They climbed on a fridge and got awayi don’t wrow.”
EPF: “They do that every time.”
Me: “Dishes are like love languages for boys.”