I loved my phone this morning. It told me the weather in Halifax (cold), and what movies were playing, and let me see the Pope’s Instagram. My phone knew how to get in touch with everyone in my life: I could call them, or send them unsolicited dong shots.
And the feel. The polished aluminum curves and slick glass, what a pleasure to spot a fingerprint and polish it clean. How can something so fungible be so tangible? I’d throw a million Chinese off a million factory roofs out of love for my phone.
Now, though, I see it for what it is: a slovenly shit, hulking and gigantic. Too many carbohydrates and drive-thrus. The new phone, the SE, is compact and graceful; my phone is riding a scooter through Wal-Mart. It is a brutal behemoth, my phone, and I never noticed the gravity it imparts to my pocket, but now can notice nothing but. My phone no longer represents my brand.
My product is inferior, and I tremble to think of what people will think of me.