We had a very good thing, you and I. We went everywhere together, museums, plays, the beach, the bathroom.
But it’s over now. I must turn you in. We’ve been together almost four years . I slid you on your side – fingered sweet nothings on your back.
Now the IT department recalls you. The company says it must “right-size” and that means that we, Level 14s, must turn in our companions. And purchase our own.
You, my phone, asked nothing of me. Unlike my boss, you gave me no deadlines. Unlike my kids, you gave me no backtalk.
Oh phone – oh Cingular 8125 – you were there for me without fail. All you asked was to be plugged in now and then. A small charge and you were happy. You took pictures and you took calendar items. You called and emailed my coworkers and friends for me. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to sending a text or two through you – “HH has started. Where r u?” (Thank you, oh phone, for your discretion.) The kids played games on you, especially Bubble Breaker.
But now, the IT people will have you. You’ll be shoved in Richie Jackson’s messy, cable-filled drawer. You’ll be forgotten and your happy ringtone heard no more.
But I’ll remember the sledding pictures from Central Park, the time I dropped you in the toilet, the times we stared at one another.
Oh, Cingular 8125, we have loved and now we are lost.
Hey, does anyone know if the Verizon Droid is any good?
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