My Pager Blowing Up

My pager’s blowing up—like, literally.

It’s buzzing like it’s got a personal vendetta against me.

What year is this again?

Who even uses pagers anymore?

Am I in a 90s sitcom?

Where’s my flip phone and my cargo shorts?

But here we are—

it’s 2024, and my hip is vibrating like I’m a doctor on call.

Except I’m not a doctor.

Unless “Doctor of Ignoring People” counts as a degree.

Message after message,

beep beep beep beep—

my pocket’s basically turning into a nightclub,

but not the cool kind.

The kind where you get stuck near the bathroom

and someone spills a drink on you.

Who’s even paging me?

My mom? Probably.

"Did you eat today?"

Yes, Mom. I’m an adult.

Although… now I’m hungry.

Then there’s Carl from work.

What does he want now?

"Hey, can you take a look at the Johnson file?"

The Johnson file?

Carl, it’s 8 PM.

The Johnson file is not a pager-worthy emergency.

Does he think I’m Batman?

Paging me to save the day?

Spoiler alert:

I’m not wearing a cape, Carl,

and the Johnson file can wait till morning.

And then there’s that one mystery pager number.

It’s like the ghost of pager past.

Keeps pinging me with random numbers.

"911," "143," "12345"—

is this a cry for help?

Or a kid who found a pager at a garage sale?

Either way, I’m not decoding this.

I’m not a spy in an old-school action movie.

But the worst part?

It won’t stop.

The pager’s relentless, like it’s got a quota to meet.

I’m starting to think it’s alive.

Does it have feelings?

Is it mad at me?

I’ve barely looked at it all day,

and now it’s throwing a tantrum like a toddler.

Do I answer?

Nah, that’s how they get you.

You give in once,

next thing you know,

you’re paging back and forth like it’s 1995,

getting sucked into a world of beeps and cryptic codes.

Maybe I’ll just turn it off.

Wait, can you even turn a pager off?

Is that a thing?

Or does it just keep beeping forever,

like some cursed relic of ancient technology,

haunting my pants pocket for eternity?

Guess I’ll live with it for now—

my hip buzzing away,

my sanity slowly unraveling,

and the pager winning,

one beep at a time.