Hopelessly devoted to IM
By Christopher DaCosta
Each person has their own sanctuary, a place where profundity is ubiquitous and meaningful musings abound. For some, this place might be the sacred Mission, a tranquil garden alcove or in the beefy arms of a new paramour. My haven is my room and my altar is my desk, which is where I worship the little black box that sits there so invitingly.
Every morning, before I even rub the morning crust from my eyes, I gravitate toward the pulsing glow of Guadalupe, my trusty but often temperamental Dell. Come on, admit it, we all have our little morning computer ritual â€" the multiple email account check, cnn.com, friendster, Armani Exchange's new men's line â€" you know, the basics that help start your day.
No, it's not an addiction; it's a godly devotion that transcends my need for breakfast before class. Who needs food â€" I'll feel naked if I don't leave an away message up. Perhaps I might have a minor problem with that rapscallion known as IM. Yes, I do confess that instant messaging has taken over my life (it has even worked its way into my vocabulary as a verb). AOL instant messenger is my poison of choice, the pleasant little yellow man lured me to a world where gossip spreads in dialogue boxes, expressions are conveyed through smileys (I refuse to actually use the word "emoticons" â€" I'm not that much of a geek) and acronyms rule supreme.
Sadly, the bulk of my interaction with my friends occurs through instant messaging, but AIM definitely serves my stalking purposes â€" away messages are the key to tracking people down, although Alanis Morrissette song lyrics are never a good indication of global positioning.
This past weekend I decided to ditch my well-worn keyboard and trade it in for a Friday night that would refrain from testing my typing dexterity and hopefully give my atrophied vocal chords a workout â€" yes, I opted for the glamour, the unpredictability and most of all the human factor of a night out with my friends.
I attended a gathering of intellectuals, some hipster and some tiara-wearing college students, over at my favorite party pad, "Fourplay." It was a grand old time, save for when I realized how severely stunted my communication skills are as a result of my AIM-oholism â€" I carelessly spewed verbal diarrhea and proceeded to look like even more of a social klutz when I would slap my head and mutter "backspace, damn it, backspace!"
After reuniting with new friends and old friends alike, suffering from severe burnt pepperoni smoke inhalation and downing several slices of delectable frozen pizzas, I trekked home.
Upon entering my room, my empty office chair beckoned and Guadalupe's screen stared back at me â€" alone and ignored. We all know I succumbed to the pressure of Guadalupe's womanly curves begging for my touch. I reluctantly signed off at approximately 5:33 a.m., climbed under the covers and was glad to know that if I make a stupid comment on AIM, I have the power of backspace.
û Contact Christopher DaCosta at (408) 554-4546 or cdacosta@scu.edu.