A good idea that lasted only a few minutes

Every December 31st, I make a solemn vow to myself: This year, I will not, under any circumstances, fall into that annual trap of making New Year’s resolutions. I say it with the same sincerity I use when telling myself I’ll only have “one cookie” or that I’ll “clean my office tomorrow.” It’s a heartfelt, straight-from-the-soul promise. And like all heartfelt promises made at 11:59 p.m. while wearing fuzzy socks and holding a glass of something bubbly, it lasts approximately forty-eight seconds.

Because this year, I had one good idea. Just one. And I’ve already broken it.

I truly believed I was finally going to learn to type like a Real Modern Human on a tiny six-inch glass phone screen. People do it everywhere — in line at the grocery store, strolling down the street, dangling off escalators, half-asleep in bed, probably clinging to the side of a mountain while texting “lol.” Meanwhile there's me, stabbing at my phone with the precision of a disgruntled pigeon.

Everyone says the same thing:
“Just use the app!”
“Use the fonts and features on the app!”
“The app is so easy!”

The app is not easy. The app is not my friend. The app mocks me.

Whenever I type on it, something mystical happens — but not in the magical Papillon-Pixie-saving-the-day kind of way. More like cursed runes appearing one letter off from anything I meant to write. I try to type “that,” but I get “tht.” Or “tah.” Or my personal favorite, “tha,” which sounds like an irritated teenager responding to absolutely everything.

Don’t even get me started on the # key. I still don’t know where it is. It’s probably hiding behind one of the buttons I never dare to touch, like the one that makes the keyboard shrink to the size of a postage stamp or the one that summons emojis I didn't know existed.

And yes, I know some people use their thumbs. Both of them. At the same time. With speed. With grace. With accuracy. It’s basically a superpower. Somewhere out there is someone typing Shakespearean soliloquies on a moving bus using just their thumbs while drinking coffee.

Me? I’m finger-pecking like a barnyard hen on a sugar rush. One wrong tap and I’ve accidentally reported my own post, opened a shopping cart, or taken a burst of 47 photos of my own eyebrow.

I should have known better. I learned to type on a manual typewriter in school. A typewriter with keys that stuck and clacked and required the upper-body strength of a competitive rower. And on that glorious beast, I am fast. I am unstoppable. I am ten fingers of pure productivity.

But on my phone? Two hours later I’ve typed one sentence and developed a personality shift, three new wrinkles, and a deep, existential hatred of autocorrect.

So here we are - I’m already throwing in the towel.

New Year’s Resolution: Learn to type on phone.
Reality: Laptop forever. Phone never. May my thumbs remain decorative only.

Blueberry, of course, watched this entire saga with the judgmental patience only a Papillon can muster. She tilted her head, blinked her big storytelling eyes, and telepathically conveyed, Sabine, sweetie… just stick to the laptop. The world needs your books, not your autocorrect rage.

And honestly? She’s right.
I’ll be typing it on my keyboard, thank you very much.

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