Dear water-damaged silver 64GB iPhone 6,
I assume this letter will find you faster than the text messages you refuse to send. It's been a full week since we've last talked, which leaves me with a strange feeling knowing we used to talk every day. Is this karma for all the times I accidentally dropped you on the floor or ignored your attempted notifications of the incoming text messages? Was it because I talked about my past phones too many times (No wonder they called it the enV...)? I know you’ll never respond, but it would be nice to know why you decided it was okay to suddenly stop functioning after our short three months together (you were my favorite birthday gift, by the way).
You were my actual everything: my safe for music, my photo hub, my one-stop entertainment source, my technological connection to the social world, and my core for knowledge in one hand. You were even the occasional GPS and daily decision maker on the destination of lunch. Thinking back to the three seconds of the traumatizing realization there was no chance of reviving you, I’m currently grappling the idea of not having any time to say goodbye to you. In those three seconds during what was supposed to be an overall incredible vacation, there were flashes of many conversations we’ve been through together and of course the instantaneous guilt of having to explain this to dear mom and dad when I got home.
Throughout the rest of that vacation weekend, I proceeded to follow those five phases most people experience when initiated by the ending of a relationship: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance (my favorite phase being bargaining, believe it or not). The denial was naturally immediate because the disbelief hit me as soon as the surface of the water met your surface. It wasn’t until I was buying a box of rice at the nearest 7/11 that I traversed to the next phase. I started to anger myself, fueled by self-blame for both leaving my purse slightly ajar and never investing in the life proof case that you always deserved. After I carefully submerged you in the box of rice, I entered the bargaining phase. If you only gave me another chance, I promised I’d buy that life proof case for you. I even promised I wouldn’t upgrade you after the contract ended in 2018 (perhaps it the alcohol that made me seem delusional making irrational promises to an inanimate object). I waited over twenty-four hours but you flatlined under the sea (cue the depression phase). Any time our crew went out to eat, I was filled with a mixture of melancholic guilt and envy glancing at the others hold their significant others in their hands. I admit I created my own phase after this known as the rebound when I pulled out my iPad. Don't worry, my iPad didn't have the same music as you and without a stable connection to wifi, it was just a prosthetic extension in my hand.
Acceptance wasn't far away after I embarked on that awful trip to the Verizon Wireless store. In a world of fast-paced ever-changing technology, I happily accepted the terms and conditions of my new silver 64GB iPhone 6. I think it's best we both move on, but I hope you can find my counterpart one day. I don't regret the short experience with one another because you taught me a few valuable life lessons, one being to always click yes to backing up on my Macbook and of course to stay away from ocean bars. Thank you for a weekend I'll kind of remember with some incredible people who made it one I'll never forget.
Sincerely,
The remorseful adult who never purchased the monthly insurance
