Where would we be without The Arsenal?

I've been sans phone for a week. Phoneless. Without my sleek, metallic, personality-bereft friend. No bulky weight in my pocket (easy ladies!) to remind me of the exciting potential and window of wonder that is my mobile.  It has been ridiculously tough. Why? I hear you cry in your sarcastic, I really-don't-care, tone. Well, I'll tell you. I'm a 20-a-day smoker. I used to be 6"4 before I started ( Zing! ), but seriously, I do enjoy a cigarette. I've found though, that the nicotine hit that is supplied by these small, pencil-sized cancer bringers is supplemented by my phone. Hold your equine-based creatures for an iota. Not for a second am I suggesting that phones are the harbingers of death, oh no, we let The Big Guy decide all that stuff. No, what I was trying to say, is that the feeling that is supplied by the cigarette and it's combo of noxious chemicals is aided, boosted, by my phone in my hand.

Whilst smoking, I am plugged into the Twitter matrix.  F*ck Facebook and it's horde of English-bastardizing, baby-pic posting, motivational quoting nincompoops.  No, Twitter is my gateway to like-minded individuals who I not only enjoy conversing with, but also rather like to read their opinions, blinkered or not. It also massages my competitive side. Massages is not the right word, no it flexes my shoulder muscles like an over-zealous corner man in a boxing match, shoving my imaginary gumshield in my bloodied gob, points it's ethereal finger at my face and implores me to go out there, pluck a tweet from my haphazardly filed mind and go and get some RT's and Faves.