Telephony.
Chère inconnue,
A few weeks ago I got thoroughly inebriated and left my purse in a taxi. In the continuing saga of my stupidity, I have managed to lose my mobile phone, under similar circumstances. This time I was too drunk for my own good and able to freely roam between two venues, which makes piecing together the exact location of my phone extremely difficult. I have conceded defeat. I know I'll never get it back.
I have only owned half a dozen phones. The first was in high school. I have a photo of that brick with its enormous phallic antenna. Whenever I talked on it, the battery would get overheated and I was constantly perspiring, from both the heat and the fear that prolonged use would cause me brain cancer.
I had a series of uninspiring, featureless phones with embarrassing ring tones. I finally rid myself of my heavy Nokia several years ago, by convincing my nana it was a better phone than the Siemens she had just purchased. I emphasized the large keys and uncomplicated menu, which I claimed were perfect for the elderly. She took my phone and I took her phone, which was remarkably similar to my Nokia only it had a range of shit polyphonic ring tones and a colour screen.
Then this year I decided to upgrade. I looked around for the most impecunious phone with the best features. I eventually settled on a Sony Ericsson out of frustration and over time, I grew to love that phone. I kept it by my bed every night. I accidentally spilled a bottle of Miss Dior Cherie perfume on it and the fragrance was absorbed into the cover, so each and every time I opened it, a sweet odour would waft out. I even attached a plump little man with a moustache to the top of it, for decoration purposes only.
I hope the person who finds my phone enjoys the 160 photos I have in there, of which only 5 are of my breasts. I am sure whoever locates my phone will enjoy the collection of videos of my oma talking in Dutch on the phone and my shirtless grandfather talking about getting a pair of pants tailored. There are saved text messages of a salacious nature and more frequently, saved text messages of a drunken nature. There are the phone numbers of my friends, my enemies and my past infatuations with additions to their names, such as "***** Spineless", "***** Loser", "****** The Cunt" and "****** Dead To Me".
Goodbye telephone.
A few weeks ago I got thoroughly inebriated and left my purse in a taxi. In the continuing saga of my stupidity, I have managed to lose my mobile phone, under similar circumstances. This time I was too drunk for my own good and able to freely roam between two venues, which makes piecing together the exact location of my phone extremely difficult. I have conceded defeat. I know I'll never get it back.
I have only owned half a dozen phones. The first was in high school. I have a photo of that brick with its enormous phallic antenna. Whenever I talked on it, the battery would get overheated and I was constantly perspiring, from both the heat and the fear that prolonged use would cause me brain cancer.
I had a series of uninspiring, featureless phones with embarrassing ring tones. I finally rid myself of my heavy Nokia several years ago, by convincing my nana it was a better phone than the Siemens she had just purchased. I emphasized the large keys and uncomplicated menu, which I claimed were perfect for the elderly. She took my phone and I took her phone, which was remarkably similar to my Nokia only it had a range of shit polyphonic ring tones and a colour screen.
Then this year I decided to upgrade. I looked around for the most impecunious phone with the best features. I eventually settled on a Sony Ericsson out of frustration and over time, I grew to love that phone. I kept it by my bed every night. I accidentally spilled a bottle of Miss Dior Cherie perfume on it and the fragrance was absorbed into the cover, so each and every time I opened it, a sweet odour would waft out. I even attached a plump little man with a moustache to the top of it, for decoration purposes only.
I hope the person who finds my phone enjoys the 160 photos I have in there, of which only 5 are of my breasts. I am sure whoever locates my phone will enjoy the collection of videos of my oma talking in Dutch on the phone and my shirtless grandfather talking about getting a pair of pants tailored. There are saved text messages of a salacious nature and more frequently, saved text messages of a drunken nature. There are the phone numbers of my friends, my enemies and my past infatuations with additions to their names, such as "***** Spineless", "***** Loser", "****** The Cunt" and "****** Dead To Me".
Goodbye telephone.