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Hot damn. Has it been a “is it allergies, covid, asthma, flu, cold or gonorrhea” kind of week for you, too?


Extreme exhaustion, probably, but who has time for that. (Jimmy Fallon. He has time for that.)

Speaking of nerds, are you kids still playing Wordle? (I’ll give you a five-letter word in six guesses.) I dig it. You’re sharpening your minds. Doing productive things. Bettering your lives.

I’m over here bouncing balls and crushing bricks.

Really, I’m playing this dumb ass game, Bricks Ball Crusher. I bounce balls about. And crush bricks. (It’s neat, you can change your ball into like a panda, dragon, creepy clown, et cetera. It’s not the worst.)

Since I’m pretending this is my diary, I also play a slot machine game.

I love slot machines. I’m that old broad in Black Hawk chugging white wine on ice out of a plastic hotel cup at 9 a.m. with my lounge pose on, my player’s card around my neck like bling and dolla dolla bills lining my coin purse.

Let’s make it rain digital noises! (Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping.)

This slot app I’m mildly addicted to is a Wizard of Oz-themed game. I spend some screen time on it. It’s like Black Hawk on your phonies, homies.

While I’m at it: I also play Candy Crush and I will not apologize for that. I’ve been playing it for way too long. Like maybe a decade-plus. Or more. I should be embarrassed but I thought we were in the trust tree, in the nest. Are we not?

I should be doing more productive things with my downtime, like writing the world’s next Great American Novel. But instead, after working on my laptop for 6 million hours a day I then like to supplement my TV screentime with simultaneous iPhone screentime.

Then some foreplay screentime with your mom to cap off the night.

Doctor, why do my eyes sometimes stop working?

Probably from poor lighting and adverse work-from-home conditions. But we’ve determined that you’re not a good candidate for Lasik.

I’ll trade you a uterus for it?

Lay off my data

Remember back in the early-aughts when we’d be like, “I only have three minutes left on my cell plan until Friday. I’ll call you from a landline later.”

That’s basically me with cell data. I’m too cheap for an unlimited plan and when I roam outside of a wi-fi canopy, all of my apps become useless because I 86 them from data.

It’s super fun when I’m under the influence of substances and forget how to work the thing.

Like last night. I wanted to report an internet outage through my Xfinity app, but it was living its best life in cellular data land, far from my grips. Floating among the waves of non-attainable use, getting all tan and shit.

“Siri! Turn on the cellular data for the Xfinity app,” I yelled from the toilet in my underwear.

She didn’t, because she blows, but that is my cross to bear.

What happened was, this bomb-ass indica payed me a visit. We all know what that means. (No, we don’t Fantz.)

It means I can’t work technology, fools.

This data stinginess has caused obstacles in the past. After a night out at the bars, I was sitting on a curb at 2 a.m. desperately trying to get Lyft or Uber to magically work but they were off doing shots in cellular data land. The whiskey I imbibed earlier definitely had me underprepared, so I had to walk home.

Because I don’t know how to work a cell phone.

Thanks for tuning in. The next person to smash that “like” button, turn on that bell notification and comment #hashtaghashtag will win a quarter. A full quarter. But you have to Venmo me postage if you can’t pick it up at my home.

This column has been brought to you by the letters W, T and F.