Dear Skype:

The first time I was asked if I could “Skype,” I believed that I was either being invited into some exclusive club OR being insulted by some bizarre Russian Army; likely the same army that bombards my site with pen1s enlargement pill ads. Imagine my surprise when I learned that you, Skype, were like a phone…ONLY WORSE.

Dutifully, I signed up for you, Skype, because, well, I think I was doing an interview with a cat or something. Or at least, that’s what he sounded like, Skype. If he wasn’t a cat, well, Skype, then you done fucked up.

AGAIN.

(how I feel when I use Skype)

Because for every word I understood, Skype, there were at least twenty I did not. Twenty to one, Skype. Those are particularly disappointing odds, Skype, especially since I can get the same type of blurry reception from my i(can’t)Phone WITHOUT having to sit on my computer, yelling WHAT!? into my screen.

(which, Skype, let’s be honest, is what happens every time I can’t find one of my dancing cactus videos.)

This weekend, Skype, I was counting on you to Do Better. I knew you had it in you, Skype, and yet, there you were, in the middle of my first non-profit board meeting for Band Back Together, five board members chatting through the miracle of the computer. With artificial flickering disco lights. And frozen pictures. And buzzing words.

Skype, you ruined my call.

Possibly, my life.

Don’t make me pull a John C. Mayer on you, Skype. Just. Don’t. You won’t like it, Skype.

Love,

Aunt Becky

P.S. I’m totally pulling a John C. Mayer on you Skype.