The unspeakable has happened. After two years of faithful service and one year of glitches, my Samsung Galaxy Grand Prime aka iPhone for the middle class has crashed. And it turned my world upside down.
My connections to the civilization had been severed for 48 hours while my phone was locked away in a local mobile store owned by a grumpy biker dude, aka Tech Support for the middle class. 48 hours of agony only to find out that it could not be salvaged.
Being unemployed has its perks, like sleeping in, staying up during ungodly hours to watch re-runs of The Nanny, cause Mr. Sheeeeeffffffieeeeeeldddddd *in a high pitched nasal tone*, etc. However, the perils of being unemployed included being broke and unable to buy new phones etc.
So I pick my sorry ass up and dig up some old abandoned “smartphones” from storage. With my luck, I didn’t get a smartphone. I got the average-back-bencher-who-skips-classes-to-get-sloshed-phone. A Blackberry. That too, a version that should be curated by museums.
But I am grateful to be able to make calls again. Since I lost all my contacts and can only religiously remember my parents’ and my boyfriend’s numbers, I’ve been dialing random numbers hoping they belong to one of my friends.
Score: No job, no phone, still fat. Life: 3, Me: 0