Dear Places With No Service,
You are a fucking joke but like, not a funny one. We're looking at you, airplanes, chairlifts, and Santos Party House. It's a dead zone.
When I enter you, Places with No Service, I feel like an Amish in a vagina, looking for 3G in a hopeless place. You remind me of the time I forgot I took 3 Adderall so I accidentally popped a fourth, resulting in sweat and random acts of aggression. You make me want to hurl my weakly serviced iPhone at the head of the brown bro at the nearest Verizon kiosk.
I swear Service,
if we can't have this year 11 formal I'm going to kill myself and you will go to jail for murdering me. If you were a person you would be a horrible one like a terrorist or a short-haired Anne Hathaway.
But while you may be the bane of my existence, No Service, I can appreciate you for opening my eyes to what must be a serious problem in places like Africa. I mean, Kony could've been ours if his hiding spot had but one fucking bar of service with which the invisible children could Insta.
So here's to you, PWNS, can you fucking hear me now? Good.