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BABYBERRY I have finally gotten off my high horse and came to grips with reality.  In other words, I have blackberried myself.  And in the process, voluntarily consented to becoming an addict.  When the lovely man at the AT&T store handed over the Bold, I felt the gates of heaven open.  I swear I saw a beam of light shine directly on it, while everything else around me faded into nothingness.  It’s like that scene in Transformers 2, where Shia Labooblit picked up that weird spearhead thing and a flash of light pierced through his pupil and shook his core.  I felt that as the screen lit up for the very first time.  Libertango blasts from celestial cloudspeakers as the world rejoices in my official debut into thumb typing addiction.  I reach out my hand and I hear someone say, “here child, thy sweet poison.”  I cling on to the blackberry, its sleek form instantly conforms perfectly into my grasp.  I no longer pay attention to the world around me.  The glazed screen staring back at me has become the screen unto which I see the world.  Within the first blissful hour I have already ignored stoplights, forgotten to stop and small talk with acquaintances, and altogether thrown all manners of social etiquette into the trash.  Forget friends, as long as my blackberry loves me.   I am told that it is customary to name one’s blackberry.  This came to no surprise since we tend to name things that we feel tremendous affection for, such as pets, jewelry, genitalia…(what?).  Friends vouched for the cliche “crackberry” but anyone who knows me knows that I am far from ordinary.  So I went with the second-most cliche: baby.  In an attempt to put a clever spin on the name, I merged “blackberry” with “baby” and came up with “blackbaby.”  A little racist?  Although I find it completely endearing (and accurate since the Bold is, well, black) one can never be too careful.  With all the anger surrounding fellow Americans in this financial clime plus the fact that I do reside in DC, I would hate to find myself screaming “WHERE IS MY BLACKBABY DAMMIT” in Southeast DC at any point in time.  Those could very well be my last words, and I don’t know if that is more depressing or the fact that I died because of my intense infatuation with something neither of, or relating to, food, men, or art.   So I gave up on naming my blackberry.  Until my dear friend Shiori helped me along and said…”why not babyberry instead?”  And that is how genius is done, friends. There was a brief moment last week when my whole world faded to black for two endless minutes.  I was in a shuttle back from Dupont Circle, and felt that familiar twitch in my thumbs.  You know, that uncontrollable twitch that occurs when your hands have been out of contact with its babyberry.  I quickly reach into my bag to retrieve the drug, but it fails to be found.  Horse shit.  Where is my blackbaby?  my babyberry?  WHERE IS MY CRACK? I break into cold sweat, my fingers frantically swim through an ocean of lip glosses, crumpled up receipts, and nameless crap.  Nothing.  Scenes flash by, as I think about all the things I have lost.  Numbers, bbm chats, pictures, my soul.  I panic, and my ears start to plug as I spiral into a dark abyss of anonymity.  I take a deep breath, and notice that my baby was safe and sound in my other hand.   I guess I need two.

BABYBERRY

I have finally gotten off my high horse and came to grips with reality.  In other words, I have blackberried myself.  And in the process, voluntarily consented to becoming an addict.  When the lovely man at the AT&T store handed over the Bold, I felt the gates of heaven open.  I swear I saw a beam of light shine directly on it, while everything else around me faded into nothingness.  It’s like that scene in Transformers 2, where Shia Labooblit picked up that weird spearhead thing and a flash of light pierced through his pupil and shook his core.  I felt that as the screen lit up for the very first time.  Libertango blasts from celestial cloudspeakers as the world rejoices in my official debut into thumb typing addiction.  I reach out my hand and I hear someone say, “here child, thy sweet poison.” 

I cling on to the blackberry, its sleek form instantly conforms perfectly into my grasp.  I no longer pay attention to the world around me.  The glazed screen staring back at me has become the screen unto which I see the world.  Within the first blissful hour I have already ignored stoplights, forgotten to stop and small talk with acquaintances, and altogether thrown all manners of social etiquette into the trash.  Forget friends, as long as my blackberry loves me.  

I am told that it is customary to name one’s blackberry.  This came to no surprise since we tend to name things that we feel tremendous affection for, such as pets, jewelry, genitalia…(what?).  Friends vouched for the cliche “crackberry” but anyone who knows me knows that I am far from ordinary.  So I went with the second-most cliche: baby.  In an attempt to put a clever spin on the name, I merged “blackberry” with “baby” and came up with “blackbaby.”  A little racist?  Although I find it completely endearing (and accurate since the Bold is, well, black) one can never be too careful.  With all the anger surrounding fellow Americans in this financial clime plus the fact that I do reside in DC, I would hate to find myself screaming “WHERE IS MY BLACKBABY DAMMIT” in Southeast DC at any point in time.  Those could very well be my last words, and I don’t know if that is more depressing or the fact that I died because of my intense infatuation with something neither of, or relating to, food, men, or art.  

So I gave up on naming my blackberry.  Until my dear friend Shiori helped me along and said…”why not babyberry instead?”  And that is how genius is done, friends.

There was a brief moment last week when my whole world faded to black for two endless minutes.  I was in a shuttle back from Dupont Circle, and felt that familiar twitch in my thumbs.  You know, that uncontrollable twitch that occurs when your hands have been out of contact with its babyberry.  I quickly reach into my bag to retrieve the drug, but it fails to be found.  Horse shit.  Where is my blackbaby?  my babyberry?  WHERE IS MY CRACK? I break into cold sweat, my fingers frantically swim through an ocean of lip glosses, crumpled up receipts, and nameless crap.  Nothing.  Scenes flash by, as I think about all the things I have lost.  Numbers, bbm chats, pictures, my soul.  I panic, and my ears start to plug as I spiral into a dark abyss of anonymity.  I take a deep breath, and notice that my baby was safe and sound in my other hand.  

I guess I need two.