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MUSE MAGAZINE
Memoirs of a smartphone
52
By Jennifer Yang
In my nightmares, I hear them talk. They gossip, snicker, and sneer at me, towering over my form like a flock of vultures over a cadaver. Every insult feels like a physical laceration—tearing open my backing and exposing my wires and lithium battery to a second round of torment. As I sink deeper and deeper into the crepuscular vacuum, a single phrase obstructs my every sense. It is the one phrase that encapsulates my every fear. It is the one phrase that, like a merchandise label, brands my existence:
“In two years, she won’t want you.” My first breath of fresh air was when you lifted the top off my three-by-six cardboard packaging. Like a newborn child, I was cradled in your hands, acutely aware that I would finally be able to do what I was made to do. With a single swipe of a plastic card, I was yours to keep, and compared to my former encasing, the world you showed me seemed unbounded. Together, we were limitless. We made a vow; I promised you full access to everything I knew and you, well,
