My cell phone plan is with Verizon – because yes, I can hear you now.
The best phone I’ve ever had is the LG 8300 – the flip-phone of GLORY, that’s what. It was perfect – curved naturally to the shape of my face, easy to find at the bottom of a bottomless purse, navigable.
No, it wasn’t as cool as an iPhone. Sure, I had to text my name “2 – 66 – 66 – 444 – 33.” Yes, I felt like a loser when I had to ask what an “app” was.
But the LG 8300 was like my 1990 Honda Accord in that, although brokeass and jankety, it never let me down. I loved it so much that I kept it for 4 years – longer than I’ve ever had a boyfriend or an apartment or a job. But this summer, it started to freak out, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before it died completely. So in September, I threw a hissy fit, prayed the Serenity Prayer, and drove myself to the worst place on earth – the Verizon store – to get a new phone.
People. I have no words to describe how much I hate my new phone.
It’s a Samsung slab of horror.
I hate it more than I hate peas, more than I hate Nashville summers, more than I hate superfluous exclamation points. I don’t hate it as much as I hate animal abuse, or, you know, WAR. But it’s up there.
This phone is to me as Toby is to Michael Scott.
The buttons are tiny and hard to press. The font on the screen is ugly. Anytime I want to do anything, I have to press two magical buttons to “unlock” it. It has horrid ringtones. Anything I try to do, it does the opposite. It’s too skinny to find in my purse. Sometimes I accidentally hit a button on the side and it starts talking. The fact that it even exists makes me want to scream.
And, well. That’s all.
I guess I’ll go to work now.