Why Texting is Satan's Plaything

Anyone who has ever texted on a smartphone, or used predictive text, knows what a dangerous situation they are putting themselves in. Namely, what is this message actually going to say when the other person receives it?

We've all been there.

Now, I love using autocorrect. Really, I do. It capitalizes words for me and adds the necessary apostrophe to any contraction. As a former English major, I'm a little embarrassed of how much I rely on it, honestly. However, there are those fabulous occasions when autocorrect turns into an extremely interesting fiasco. For example, this:

When I sent this to my charming husband, we were still dating. He was actually planning on proposing on the aforementioned Monday. He never did take me pooping...

Or this:

Nick: Do you want me to pick up something for dinner?
Me: Nah. I've got some chicken thawing. Butthat you.
Nick: Did you just call me a butthat?
Me: Yes. Yes I did. I did, however, mean "but thank you."

Or this:

Me: Can I borrow your crackpot?
Mom: Sorry. I just can't part with it. But I can lend you my crock pot.
Me: That works. Really is a shame about that crackpot, though. Maybe another time.
Mom: I don't like to share.

Or there's the time when I sent a text meant for the hubs to my mother:

Me: I miss you, lovekins!
Mom: Are you on drugs this morning?
Me: Apparently.

And that's why I shouldn't text anymore...