The Mysterious Curse of My Phone’s Tiny Keyboard

Is this a typing device for ants?

Perhaps this creature is responsible. Photo by Artie_Navarre/Pixabay

“I trust you implicitly,” I think I’ve texted my sister.

My heart warms at the deep back-and-forth text conversation we’ve shared — typically, our daily chatter revolves around funny memes and stupid quips. I smile and reflect, staring into the vast Western sky before I focus on my phone screen again. My sent, heartfelt message instead appears to say, “I trask you omplixtly.”

“Wtf, Sare?” My sister responds, followed by 17 crying laughing emojis.

My written words have betrayed my passion for spelling and my long-standing role as the Deputy Chief of the Grammar Police. And it isn’t the first time. I first noticed this mysterious curse when I purchased my phone in 2022. An upgraded camera, ample storage space, and fun, cool features signified an end to all of the challenges my old phone presented.

…or so I thought.

“Was this phone’s tiny keyboard made for ants?” I shout to my living room wall.

ET fingers don’t help

E.T. has fingers that mirror my own — sans the red glow. Universal Pictures.

My fingers are long and skinny. My parents dreamed of my future as a concert pianist, but my talents never grew beyond my gangsta mastery of “Heart and Soul.” My hands helped me to enjoy the tiny chimney cracks on long and winding rock climbing routes, but otherwise, I haven’t developed any superpowers as a result of my hands.

In second grade, my teacher called me to the front of the class, where she performed a mirrored comparison of our hands. My crazy, unwieldy fingers, attached to a 4’ 3” body, towered over her 65-year-old digits. All 30 kids in the classroom laughed and laughed.

Shortly thereafter, my nickname for the duration of the school year became “E.T. fingers.” Alas, this moniker wasn’t the fiery self-esteem booster one might imagine.

The one shining feature of my unspectacular alien hands has always been my exact typing precision. Until I bought my current phone.

I can’t imagine how my fellow stumpy-fingered phone model owners can send even a singular text without going crazy — if my long needles type “I live you, too” in response to “I love you,” what hellish message landscape do short, fat fingers endure daily?

A non-existent publishing contract

Notice the “cam hope” — aka, “can hop.” Screenshot by author.

I use my phone for texts, social media posts and comments, and private messages via Facebook and Slack. The first time I sent a long, heartfelt, insightful message as a response from a potential publisher’s reach-out, I knew I was taking a huge leap up the mountain of my writing journey.

“This is the perfect message,” I thought. “Definitely reflects my authenticity and writing talent.” I hit send and resisted the urge to tell everyone about my all-but-certain continuing creative contributions and huge earnings on the publisher’s website. I imagined my powerful Academy Award speech for Best Original Screenplay (that would eventually come as an indirect ripple effect of this shining message).

As I awaited the contract offer I knew would come within the hour, I read my sent message,

“Thsnks. I’m hinored you’d conaider me,” the message began.

No! What gypsy have I wronged to suffer under such a curse? I’ll take a vampire with a soul, ala Angel (David Boreanaz) from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, instead.

I’ve even formed a gang of mystery sleuths, led by a comedic and lovable dog, to discover the origins of my curse. Alas, the only thing we’ve discovered thus far is a money-laundering scheme involving Old Man Withers, the abandoned amusement park owner. He would’ve gotten away with it too — if it wasn’t for us meddling kids.

But I digress. My phone’s keyboard is still possessed.

My brother is a priest. I plead with him to perform a phone exorcism, but he laughs until he can’t breathe, and is now in a remote recuperation and healing facility. I’m doomed to live this misspelled fate.

A flurry of errors

I write for a living. In my free time, I’m an editor. Words are like a hot chocolate elixir for my soul. The mysterious curse of my tiny phone keyboard makes me look like a mechanic who ruins engines. A professional skier who falls more than skis. When I’m messaging with fellow writers, each error takes a chunk of my soul.

“I swear I know how to write!” I try to reaffirm. Instead, I declare, “ I swrer I onow how to wrote!”

A sharp pang stabs my heart when I spot each error. Correction is futile. I just let my fellow writers and editors read between the lines now — I don’t have time to correct each misspelling. I can almost see the disappointment burning in their eyes. I have become a fraud. A shell of what I once was — there’s a monster lurking in my tiny phone keyboard and I can do nothing to stop it from unleashing its reign of terror.

Autocorrect, the impact of my curse, and Stephen King

Unfortunately, the curse has now infected my autocorrect feature as well. If I need to follow up with a friend about a scheduled date to the pool, my phone will ask, “Are we still on for the snizzatch?” How? What? Why? Is snizzatch an og Snoop Dog word?

In what world does snizzatch seem a reasonable replacement for pool?

I recently discovered my phone hates the word “shady.” Whether I want to write about trees or the questionable caliber of someone’s character, “shady” is transformed to “sassy.” I have to physically click on “shady” so my phone won’t create no-nonsense, argumentative imagery and ascribe it to Crape myrtles.

My sister, a fellow high-ranking officer in the Grammar Police Department, wonders if I’ve developed a secret drinking problem, or if I need a writing intervention. My friends grow distant with each “Whuy’s ip?” I send.

Nevertheless, I suffer the greatest impact of my mysterious curse on TwittX. I refuse to pay Elon Musk $8 for the opportunity to edit my posts. Thus, I attempt to craft each with painstaking detail. I intentionally re-read my words before hitting the send button. Somehow, my phone still exerts its dastardly powers. Yes, TwittX is a cesspool of hate — I first joined for the writing community, and tried to ignore the vitriol — but I’ve stayed because one of its coolest features allows me to interact with celebrities who would otherwise have no idea I exist.

Ethan Embry (Empire Records, Sweet Home Alabama ) and I follow each other. The Magicians star, Hale Appleman, once retweeted one of my articles. Rob Delaney (Catastrophe, Deadpool 2) liked my comment on his humorous tweet (post? X?). I become marginally cooler through these surface interactions.

However, I am one of a gazillion writers who admires Stephen King and I still eagerly devour his newest releases. King is on TwittX, too. I’ve followed him and commented on his posts for years.

I dare not even whisper my fantastical hope that Stephen King will stumble across one of my short stories and sing its praises. Yet, no matter how insightful my response, my phone’s curse spills all over my words to the horror legend.

“Hully os one of my fsvorite characters,” I cleverly craft. My latest response to a King tweet: “eeeYou’re a nstunal treasure, sir.”

I have yet to hear back from Tabitha King’s husband, and he probably hates me. Why, God? Why?