Y u txt me bzotch?

At exactly 2:32 a.m. this morning, I was awakened from a drug-induced sleep (mmmm…muscle relaxants…mmmm) by a rather loud chime that I couldn’t quite place. Once I was fully cognizant, I realized that it was my cell phone, hidden over in the corner, gaining strength from its charger. Apparently, even though I’d had it on vibrate for the last day, once I plugged it in to charge, the volume cranked right back up to eleven. And it woke me up. At 2:32. In the morning.

I used the untimely wake-up call as an excuse to visit the bathroom (I really need to stop drinking quarts of seltzer before bedtime) and, of course, my overactive imagination jumped from “Who the hell called me at 2:32 in the morning?” to “Wait, I have the ringer off, so…SOMEONE ELSE IS IN THE APARTMENT AND THEIR PHONE WENT OFF THEREFORE ANNOUNCING THEIR PRESENCE TO ME AND NOW I AM GOING TO DIE.” (This behavior is not entirely out of character for me, seeing as just a couple of weeks ago, I was on the elevator at work and I got off and my little card case with my ID in it was missing and, instead of thinking, “Huh. Must’ve dropped it in the meeting somewhere,” I immediately stopped in the hallway and mentally shrieked, “OH MY GOD MY ID IS IN THE ELEVATOR SHAFT.” Drama queen, anyone?)

Yeah.

I promptly turned on all the lights and checked in the closets while holding a nail file before me in a rather aggressive manner, although I’m fairly certain that the very appearance of my insane bedhead would have been enough to scare off practically any psychotic serial killer/stalker. I also checked under the bed, where a cantankerous dust bunny glared at me and flipped me the finger.

Having calmed my totally irrational late-night fears that there was not, indeed, a slathering escaped mental patient WITH A CELL PHONE lurking about the premises, I decided to check my cell phone for some sort of clue as to who might be calling me at that late hour.

And here is what greeted me:

Fuk u hang da phone 4 yo huck az9 L!L J¿Y ¿K¿ L!L HYP3

What the hell?

I have to say, I am fascinated that this individual cannot seem to get the word “fuck” right, but “phone” he’s totally okay with! And what the hell is he saying, anyway? Or she, for that matter? I’m good on the “fuk u” part. That’s clear. But are they telling me to hang up the phone? Or are they upset that I have hung up the phone? And what, praytell, are they attempting to tell me by that “yo huck az9″? I can’t decipher it.

I put it out of my mind at the time because it was still DARK OUTSIDE and not DAYTIME, and I went to sleep and whispered goodnight to my imaginary killer and rested easy.

And, of course, this morning when I got to the office, I flipped open my phone and texted back, “…Grandma?”

At worst, I thought the idiot wouldn’t respond. At best, I thought they’d realize their mistake and apologize for being mentally hindered.

I received neither.

Instead, this is what just showed up on my phone:

Wat da fuk u talkin bout L!L J¿Y ¿K¿ L!L HYP3

I see clearly now that the “L!L J¿Y ¿K¿ L!L HYP3″ is clearly meant to be this person’s “handle” or “signature”. However, I have NO EARTHLY IDEA what it actually means. A quick Google search for this string conjured up no further explanation, unfortunately. But now I was curious — was this person just stupid? Or was this some sort of strange marketing idea? As my initial text was intended to be humorous, rather than illuminative, I decided to send another message their way. This one was mercifully clear and to the point:

You have the wrong number, dude.

The response was immediate and swift and totally off the rails:

Hell naw aint u wk ¿ da shades n da mall u giv me yo numba n mi dawg ben talkin 2 yo lil sista n u ben trippin u must b mixin L!L J¿Y ¿K¿ L!L HYP3

Interesting. It would appear that they did not believe me. And that they think I work in the mall. And that I have a little sister. And that their dog can speak and they have been discussing me at length. I would like to state for the record, however, that I am neither tripping nor mixing. At all. Ever. Except that one time in college.

Now, at this point, a normal person would not respond, fully aware that the sender of these messages is a total idiot and obviously not cluing into the fact that they have the wrong number and that I am not the individual they seek.

I am not a normal person.

I just sent this message:

1. Clearly, judging by my steady grasp of the English language, I do not work at the mall. 2. I do not have a “lil sista”. 3. You need to stop hanging out at the mall and start going back to class because DAMN.

Yes. I am the kind of person who sends snotty elitist text messages to strangers. It’s true. But by now I am totally entertained by this plebe. And they didn’t fail to produce more entertainment not two seconds ago when they actually CALLED me and I hit “ignore” and they probably went right to my voicemail and realized that, indeed, the number they have is wrong and whomever they met at the mall probably just gave them a random fake number that wound up being mine.

Chagrined, they chose not to leave me a voice message, instead opting to send me this via text:

Oh mi fault i had da wrng numba n dat all u had da say! all da otha shyt talkin iz irrelevant L!L J¿Y ¿K¿ L!L HYP3

Hm. Really? I believe that I was fairly CLEAR in my original text message that he actually HAD the wrong number (and by now I’m fairly certain that this individual is in fact a male because, hi, someone gave him their number and that someone works at the mall and has a lil sista and he’s totally trying to bang her) and that really IS all I said. Apparently, the sentence, “You have the wrong number, dude” is far too amorphous for him to grasp with his typing thumbs. I also find it supremely interesting that, once again, he seems to have problems spelling relatively simple words like “the” and “and” and “you” but hauls a textbook perfect “irrelevant” out of his arsenal as if its been buried beneath a mountain of “LOLs” and “TTYLs” just WAITING to get out into the sunlight.

I really shouldn’t respond. I really should just end it here. But I’m so tempted to write back:

hahaha no u gotz da rite numba i just fkin wit ya! wnna met lata at da mall? at da tatco bellz? LOL! Xxxxooo R*&@)))!!!

But I’m afraid this last missive might send me directly to hell.