Just a few days ago, walking around Brooklyn while listening to music and navigating my way to a pizza place to meet a friend for a quick slice, my phone decided it had had enough.
From 51% to 24% to dead battery in a matter of 15 to 20 minutes. No warning, no explanation. Just dead.
One minute you’re listening to a song, the next it sort of slowly fades out and your phone has passed away.
Now, beyond the obvious annoyances of this happening, I actually did need my phone that night (or so I thought at the time) because I was attending an event for which my ticket was electronically stored on my phone.
As this all happened, I was crossing the street. The music slowed down and went off and having had this happen to me a number of times recently, I knew what was going down.
I took the phone out of my pocket to confirm my suspicions and with little recourse, muttered a few curse words and continued on my way.
HERE is where I’d loved to have been able to smash my phone into a million fucking pieces. I wanted to hurl it as hard as I could into the gutter, stomp on it with my boot, hope a truck backed over it a million times in the middle of the road. There was no shortage of joy I’d have felt had I been able to destroy that piece of fucking trash.
Of course, I didn’t. And we often don’t. Why? Because (and this is in lieu of the Polar Opposite) the immediate realization after the fun of smashing is that you now have to go through the living hell that is buying a new one.
But supposing we were all millionaires with personal assistants that could remedy that particular element of this situation, would you love to be able to smash your iPhone every time it pulled a fucking stunt like that?
I know I would.
scott spinelli 