I love my phone. It connects me to the outside world. It lets me watch Netflix from my room at 2 in the morning when the house is dark and scary and I refuse to sleep. It makes lovely little beeping noises whenever someone I care about is sending me some sort of communication. It also has twelve cracks in the screen and a battery that has swollen to the point that putting the case back onto my phone when I’ve dropped it for the thirtieth time that week is becoming nearly impossible. It is a dear possession.
Yet, sometimes it frustrates me. Sometimes I watch that little piece of technology, sitting innocently on a table top or couch, and I wonder what its devious mind is thinking. Why isn’t it beeping? Why isn’t it ringing? Why aren’t little lights of notification blinking to show me that SOMEONE CARES???
I stare at it, pick it up, put it down again, then I move away, to watch it from afar. Still, it continues to solemnly rest on its perch, unceremoniously glittering in the lamplight, taunting me with Silence.
Then I just want to fling it against a wall. Stomp on it with my steel-toed hiking boots that make me look like a lumberjack. SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER.
But I don’t. Because I just have to wait. Sweet time will deal with it.
I’ll rise from the couch in a hurry forgetting my phone is in my lap, and let it have a taste of cold tile on a concrete floor. I’ll leave it across the room on some tabletop, and then ask somebody to toss my phone to me, and it will slip through my vengeful fingers. Or I’ll just let one of my nieces or nephews play with it when they ask, and then await its imminent destruction.
In the end, it will be destroyed.
Just like all things that hurt me.
…or maybe it will beep.