Hello? Please help! My phone is broke!
An ethereal millennial with coffee in hand, earbuds in, and limitless data delivering her a steady stream of dopamine. Hello? I wanted to say. Please help me! My phone is broke! But without an app to hide behind or a filter to perfect my delivery, I didn’t say a word.
A quick workout before a Friday night out. The 75-lb dumbbells met overhead. I felt the pump building my chest, arms, and ego. I lowered the weights to my chest. And that’s when it happened. My smartphone slipped out of my shorts. It was like a vital organ erupted out of my skin.
The device that knew me better than my mother, God, and even my own self was suddenly a pile of manufactured guts.
Anxiety grew, panic rose, and the fear of missing out overwhelmed me. I scooped up the heap of microchips and plastic. My eyes stared at it to attempt a resurrection, but I had no transcendent power.
I dashed out of the gym into the hot, heavy summer. I stood hopelessly on th…