About two weeks ago my old cell phone kicked the bucket.
My phone was touch-screen, but not a smartphone, and was ridiculously complicated to operate. By the end of its life, it was more of a hit-screen. And a swear-and-yell screen. And after suffering weeks of physical and emotional abuse it hitched a ride out of this Podunk town, never to be seen again.
Fortunately, my contract was up anyways, garnering me a new phone at a “reasonable” cost.
Always remember, “reasonable” is subjective.
I considered “downgrading” to a phone with buttons but that seemed sort of lame, even to me.
So I got an iPhone. This probably won’t end well.
I don’t have the greatest track-record with technology. I’m slow to embrace it into my life, and when I do, I break it.
Case in point: A couple years ago, at Husband’s urging, I purchased a MacBook. I had it for 2 months and spilled coffee on the keyboard, breaking the trackpad. We purchased an external mouse, but still.
I’m taking every precaution possible with this new phone. Protective case. Scratch-resistant film. Animal sacrifice.
Still, I’m probably best off not touching the thing. And that’s ok. Because I hear smoke-signals are coming back into vogue.