Speaking of narcissists, if we were all as temperamental and high-strung as the smartphones we ferry around, the world would be unbearable. Nothing would get done. Ever. Our lone activities would be clamoring for attention and throwing tantrums: look at me, look at me, listen, pick me up, talk to me, watch this, yoohoo, ring, ring, look at me, dammit.
I don’t know about you, but I’m fed up with the constant demands.
Just the other day I skipped outside with a book and my cellphone, planning to indulge in a little summertime bliss. I planted myself on a sunny bench, cranked up iTunes, leaned back, and tumbled headlong into Spoonbenders. I crave such moments. Gone are the days when I needed excitement and thrills and drama, I’m surprisingly content with predictable. It’s downright comforting.
The weather alone would have been joyous enough, so the book was icing on the cake. It swept me into another dimension altogether, one with a rollicking soundtrack. I read page after page, enchanted by the story and the characters in a mellow atmosphere. Until the music stopped. Abruptly. Without warning, mid-note. What the Hell?
I picked up the phone. I looked at the screen. And lost all respect for my device right then and there. Seriously? It can’t cope with a little sunshine? What a flipping prima donna. You know, I’m a pretty sophisticated piece of technology in my own right — we all are — and I don’t shut down when I’m hot. No one does. Drop us like a bad habit, toss us in the tub, and we’ll carry on.
Not the smartphone. Oh, no. It gets put on a pedestal and worshipped like royalty. Heck, I’m surprised it isn’t carted around on a pillow and attended by servants. The thing only has to peep or chirp and every head turns. We rush to gaze at it, find out what it wants, feverish to soothe its every whim.
Now, ready for the really sick part? I want a gig like that.
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