Apparently, cellphones are the bane of my existence. If I'm not getting bitched out by some disgruntled cashier over one, I'm putting my phone through the most rigorous high velocity impact tests known to man. I'm not quite certain how some of this shit happens, but I've managed to drop my phone in a toilet and accidentally kick it across a parking lot a few times. It's been stepped on, bounced off the bed into the wall, and more times than I can count. . . . . I've forgotten that it's in my lap when I get out of the car, but am quickly reminded as I hear the familiar sound of metal and plastic crashing and scraping along unrelenting cement.
I used to drive a big truck and one day after coming home from buying a brand new phone, as I was exiting this mammoth vehicle, I managed to drop my two hour old phone which literally shattered into thousands of unrecognizable pieces. Buttons flew in every direction, the LCD display was obliterated, and I had to use the voice recognition key for a week before I was sent a replacement. All I can remember is how thankful I was that I had had the foresight to purchase the insurance.
Years later, and I'm still pushing my phones to the limits of their structural engineering fortitude. The interesting part is that I take amazingly good care of everything else I own. I treat my DVD's so gingerly you would think I was a mad scientist handling explosive materials, I avoid vigorous driving to reduce wear and tear on my car, and I still dust off my Playstation 2 that's probably older than most of your kids. I know what you're thinking, How can someone so assiduously protective of his belongings allow for such atrocities to happen? I wish I knew. I drop kicked my phone in the throat just last night.
My friends call me the Text Master. I don't have one of those nifty miniature keyboard touch pads, oh no. I have the old school model which you can operate with one thumb. You've never seen a phalanx move with such precision and blinding speed. I text multiple people at the same time, I text while I eat, while I drive, while I watch T.V., and when I'm shopping. I text at the gym, in between clients, during my lunch break, and while I walk the dog. As a matter of fact, I'm texting right now. In retaliation to my pervasive texting, my phone's 9 key has decided to stop functioning. I think it's sprained. It works sometimes, other times I have to think of another word to use that doesn't need a W, X, Y, or Z. You'd be surprised how often you use a "W" or "Y".
This isn't the first time my phone's suffered a Repetitive Stress Injury (RSI). A few months ago, it was the number 3 key. It's virtually impossible to text without the letters D,E, or F. Trust me, I've tried, and I possess a rather impressive lexicon. A few months before that, various directions on my select key would give out from time to time, making navigating through menus more difficult than threading a needle in the dark with lotion on your hands. (I don't know, I'm guessing that's tough) At the very least, as equally frustrating.
Why don't I get a new phone you ask, well, not only do I feel a special kinship with my phone, but I've invested more money in that damn thing than my car. I've had to buy multiple batteries (one on account of the toilet debacle), blue teeth, (plural for blue tooth?) car chargers, and home chargers. I'm also not too keen on parting with my current phone, because I like to text while I drive. You can't do that with one hand on the majority of these new phones. I'm not ready to part with that facet of my communicative repertoire. I see countless nimrods texting with two hands as they drive. That's just a little risky, and not to mention, down right stupid.
I suppose it's time to say good bye to this phone and turn it in for a newer model. Who knows, after getting to know the new one, I might really like her. I just hope they can transfer all the naked pictures I've collected.