Dropped Call: A Lover’s Lament

My Dearest Cell Phone,

Before I begin, please know that I do love you.  In fact, it’s greater than love.  It’s an addiction.  And I don’t see that changing anytime soon. So whatever may follow is only a constructive look at our relationship.

We’ve been together for almost twelve years now.  Remember those days in the beginning?  We were just a couple of dumb kids.  Life was so simple.  You had nothing but a monochrome screen, which of course you made sound co much cooler by calling it “digital”—like how old and smelly clothes became “vintage.”  We’d spend our days playing Snake, and no matter how hard I tried, you’d always win.  But I didn’t care; you were MY phone.  My own personal number.  My own exclusive escape.

But as the years have come and gone, you’ve taken on drastic changes.  Now, I understand that our society is obsessed with appearances, and everyone should take at least a little bit of pride in their looks.  But I’m afraid I’ve seen it all with you.  And really, who are you trying to impress?  Your elective surgeries and changes have gone too far.

At first, you were obsessed with losing weight, getting thinner and thinner, until you were damn near anorexic.  You had to be handled with such care, and the proved to be quite difficult, as you were so small my hands couldn’t get a good grip.  Often times, I’d even drop you in the toilet; which I have profusely apologized for (See, addicted.  Couldn’t even not use you while I was taking a piss).  And seriously, you thought “Razr” was a cool nickname?  Woah, look how edgy you are with your letter dropping (Ask your precious Siri to define sarcasm).

But then you went overboard.  Started adding hours of music, Internet access; you even got rid of your keypad.  What kind of phone doesn’t have a keypad?  And the more you changed, the more addicted I became.  Did you ever stop to think that maybe I don’t want to be distracted?  Perhaps I’d like to talk with the other customers at Starbucks while we wait for our chai soy lattes.  Maybe engaging in conversation with my family at the dinner table would be enjoyable; I don’t know, as I haven’t been able to do this in years!

And sure, I enjoy the attention from others.  They stare with great jealousy and utter under their breath, “I must have one.”  Got the gents at the country club thinking they should trade theirs in for a newer model.  A real eye catcher, you are.  And I’m grateful for that.  But there’s one issue that rides above all else.

Despite all your superficial enhancements, the core component of our relationship has never improved:  communication.  After all these years, I’m still turning my head upside down to get better reception.  Hell, I even make weird poses when it’s the other person that’s having quality issues.  I sacrificed my landline for you.  A landline with clear, crisp voices coming through.  I bought into your bullshit, and now I’m stuck with your terrible sound forever.  Love no longer exists in our relationship.  Now it’s nothing but pure addiction.

So Happy Valentine’s Day, Cell Phone.  Maybe next year, instead of getting the technological-equivalent of a third boob job, we can work on what’s on the inside.  And isn’t that what really matters?

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