Addictions Come in Many Forms, Mine Has Voicemail: Ophira explains that you can call her whatever you like, but just make sure you call her.

Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or morphine or idealism. – Carl Jung

It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues. – Abraham Lincoln

It is possible to be addicted to innocent habits, like exercise or volunteering or petting bunnies. I’ve not met these people, or perhaps I have but we didn’t talk for long. I associate "addiction" with "vice," and "vice" with "escape," escape from the mediocrity of our little lives. I think of power, sex, food, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, drama, luxury, gambling, sleep, dishonesty, beauty, work, recklessness, speed, admiration, attention, betrayal, shopping, fantasy, chocolate, even misery.

I like all of these, but they usually play only supporting roles in my life. A piece of chocolate here, a manipulative telephone conversation there, three bottles of wine here.… They’re just not consistent or necessary enough to call any of them a true addiction. I feel an addiction should be that thing that has first billing on the marquee of your being. It should be something that you absolutely require in your own twisted way.

There is one vice, or rather device, that I can hardly live one day without, and if I do, I think about it constantly. With this I can create drama, I can soothe tensions, I can experience love, I can plot adventure. I can find whatever I want with this device. I am addicted to the phone.

My family introduced me to the phone when I was at a young age. I watched them use it for years before I started myself; I learned it from them. This was light-years before the phone was a weightless handheld device with which you could move with from room to room, let alone street to street or city to city. This was back when acid wasn’t just speed with an edge, hard rock was still dangerous, and phones had a short leash. We had a phone in every room. They were heavy and square and came in colors that matched your decor. In the kitchen we had a red one, corresponding with the red-and-white checker pattern of the drapes and wallpaper; in the den there was an orange one resembling the long shag carpet and pillows on the couch; and in the living room we had a phone that was tastefully beige, so that it wouldn’t overshadow the oil painting of mountains we pretended was art. Each phone had its own little table or nook. It was back when a phone in a room demanded respect.

I remember the first time my sister let me make a call – I was barely six. My little fingers could hardly manipulate the big dial, and I had to cradle the bulky receiver with two hands. I was almost breathless when my mom picked up the other end and said hello. It hardly seemed possible to me then – a weird, thin wire that ran into the wall was giving me my mother’s voice. I didn’t know what to say; the power was too great. I was convinced she wouldn’t be able hear me even if I did speak. But then the conversation started, and I was hooked. The phone became the best toy ever, because it meant no more talking to imaginary characters. You could access real ones at any time.The phone was simple and beautiful then. You never knew who called – it was a mystery each time. There was no LCD number reveal, no screening of calls. Back then, if you missed a call, you missed a call. The ring of the phone was tinny and sharp, produced by two large electrically stimulated bells. That sound would make me salivate like Pavlov’s dog, because it meant maybe, just maybe, there was someone on the other end who could deliver you from the madness of spending time with the family. It was a way out.

I lived for talking on the phone. I would spend hours with my friends devising prank calls. I loved prank calls – I loved the idea of dialing any random selection of seven numbers and connecting to someone somewhere, and then trying to fuck with their minds. One of my favorite pranks was posing as someone from the phone company. We’d explain to the nice person that work was being done on their line and that they should not pick up the phone for the next hour or so, or the person on the other end would be electrocuted (it seems ridiculous now, but at the time we thought people bought this stuff). Then you wait five minutes and call back. You let it ring and ring. If they don’t pick up, you call back. Finally, when they do pick it up, you and your friend scream into the receiver as if going into electric spasms. Then you hang up and laugh. Then you play with Barbies.

By the time I was twelve I was using the phone ten to fifteen times a day. I was lucky enough to persuade my mom to let me have a phone in my room, where I would sit in the corner and talk constantly. My father would scream when he came home from work, "The line was busy for hours!" When he would get mad like that, I would retreat to my room and make a call. And I would go crazy if I couldn’t get ahold of someone, calling obsessively, knowing that sooner or later they would come home and pick up the phone (You could let the phone ring 30 times before you were automatically disconnected). I would even talk with friends overnight. We would talk and talk until one person drifted off. I often woke up cuddling the receiver like a teddy bear.

As I grew, my addiction grew, and the phone became more and more integral to my life. My family tried to help me, my boyfriends complained, I almost lost jobs because I talked too much at work. More than once I had to borrow money to pay my phone bills. It was my best friend. It kept me connected and it cured boredom. It was my escape from a world of loneliness.

I loved having dramatic phone conversations. Fights were always good, because the anonymity offered by the phone gave me the power to be more confident and affected. Inevitably one person would hang up on the other. That’s when I learned what it was like to wait for a phone call. The immediate withdrawal after not reaching your high is horrible – you just have to wait it out. You stare at the phone, as if it will ring if you keep one eye on it. Voices in my head would tell me to just give in and pick up the receiver and call. Another voice would argue that if I call, I have no self-control and I am a loser. When in this state, I often have to remove myself and go somewhere where I have no access to a phone. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about calling the whole time.

A few years ago, when I bought myself a cellphone, my entire world changed. The cellphone became my bestest friend. Having the cellphone not only meant never missing a call, but I could also call people on a whim at any time. If I was running errands I would talk on my phone to keep me company on my walk from the dry cleaner to the post office, from bank to home. I never had to be alone again. And it was my phone – my own personal phone, no one else’s. I was in deep love. But I had to give up the cellphone, because that addiction brought about a clicking sound in my ear (I swear), and I nearly went bankrupt. I could not be trusted with whom I would call, either. I would be out with one person and call their nemesis while they were in the bathroom. I would be out on a date and take a call to complain about it or find a way out. My fellow cellphone addict friends and I would call one another all day long to self-indulgently provide an ongoing commentary on our pathetic lives. I would be lying if I said I don’t miss those days.

I always know where a phone is in a room. I can feel it. It doesn’t matter where I go in the room, it’s like in some way I’m only circling the phone. I think I hear it ring when it doesn’t, and when I come home I look forward to checking my messages and, I hope, returning some calls.I have waited my whole life to receive certain phone calls. I really do believe one call could change my life. And I wait for that call every day. I’ve given the phone a personality, a life of its own; it is ultimately more powerful than I could ever be. And then it rings. I stare. It rings again. My heart is pounding; my hand is quivering as I reach for the receiver. I pick it up. I don’t know who it is, because I refuse to get call display; it would take the spontaneity, the romance out of my phone. My mouth opens and I say hello. The love affair begins all over again.

I wonder if I will ever move beyond this. Maybe one day soon I will experience a sense of calmness when I have those moments of insecurity, and I’ll move beyond the desperation that has my eyes darting from telephone to e-mail to cigarettes. Desperate communication and desperate smoking are both deadly.

Ophira Eisenberg is a comic who’s hoping that you’ll call.