You’re rushing to get to your car after a long night at work and your phone slips out of your pocket and slams against the concrete. You pick it up and are ecstatic to see no visible cracks in the screen. You think “phew, dodged a bullet.” Then you push the button to light up the screen and the screen stays blank. You try popping the battery out, put it back in, and turn it on. You hear the familiar chime of your phone starting up, but the screen is still pitch black. Shit. You just broke your favorite possession… and no, you didn’t get the insurance on it.
Yup. That’s my night. I broke my phone. I’m writing this entry from my yee old tablet. I’m so bummed out. The Man isn’t home from work yet and I’ve got no way to text him and tell him that my phone is burnt toast. I’m so annoyed at myself. If I cared this damn much you’d think that I would have secured it better… or you know… had it in its case. Nope. I did neither. In hindsight my actions were careless and reckless. Pity party of one because who gives a crap that I busted my galaxy other than me? Yup. Just me.
In the whopping hour it has been since that fatal accident, I’ve come to terms that when it comes to my phone, I’m a basic bitch. I should be able to survive without yet. I’m addicted to my phone… who knew!?!?