Not so long ago, I had zero clue about the potential held by text messaging. I preferred actually talking to my friends, and if I was going to send an email— even (or often) a drunk email— it was damn well going to be four pages long. I couldn’t stand it when someone had their Blackberry on the table during a night out (okay, I still feel that way), and I’d make a horribly self-righteous show of turning my phone off and dropping it in my purse, not to be looked at again (until I went to the bathroom). (ok. I still do that.)

This was before I moved to New York, where The Culture of Text Messaging is a different thing entirely. I repeatedly ran up huge charges with four page texts, made more frequent bathroom trips… sometimes, I’d even check my phone IN PUBLIC. IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. OMG. Of course, I’d feel okay about it. Because they’d be doing it, too.

Hell, I even had entire relationships based on texting. Some began with an intriguing message or two, and once it even turned out that the boy in question and I had incredible text chemistry… but in person? Not so much. So we’d stay up all night teasing each other with banter, making great, flirtatious shows of our wit… and our ability to come up with excuses not to actually speak in person. It was actually a pretty beautiful relationship. It still is.

Of course, I also became (overly?) familiar with the late night drunk text, the true confessions text, the will-you-come-over-even-though-it’s-four-AM text, the I’m-coming-over-even-though-it’s-four-AM text. And since I’ve left New York, I’ve gotten to know the “I miss you” text all too well. But nothing beats one I received last night, which originated (of course) in NYC:

“Hello. What have you been up to? I miss having sex with you.”

SRSLY? Well, GWHTLC. CYA.

Is there an abbreviation for ‘nostalgia gone’?