Here is a short, largely pictorial story about all the cats who are in my cell phone.
First of all, this little green device of mine has been through some times. Immediately following The Great Robbery of 2009 (a day which is also remembered as “The Great Aneurysm Scare of 2009”), a guy with a chinchilla and I boarded a subway bound for the Manhattan AT&T store, and the phone which currently sits between my elbow and my michelada was thereafter born.
Since then, it has survived eight moves, one foolish bathtub swim, and several kisses. It was there when I moved into a dome with a bearded stranger and its battery took the brunt of punishment that winter, becoming sluggish, cold. Jake emblazoned it with a label-maker one snowy night at Tyler’s old place: “POOCHCAT”. It lay dormant when we were frolicking in New Zealand, and upon returning last January, it shuddered once again to life and acted as a time capsule for my previous life.
And no, I still don’t get picture messages.
Lauren Fallon has called this phone “ghetto”. Whatever, it’s not that bad.
But I am aware of the fact that this old girl is slowing down, and soon it will be time to put her out to pasture. She represents an important formative time for me, and for this reason I am reluctant to see her go. Perhaps most importantly, it is the first phone into which I haven’t wept nightly. This is a big move, and all parties named Jake Weller breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Anyway, some cats dwell here, as you might imagine. In preparation for getting a new fancy phone sometime in the conceivably soonish future, I hilariously documented all my cell phone photos with my camera the other night. The results were less than professional. Call me the anti-Instagram.