It went something like this.
I pulled down my dark green jeans and text my friend Christina while peeing. IPhone was then set on the floor and I commenced to wipe my pepa. Pants pulled up and button buttoned. iPhone picked up and placed in the right back pocket of my dark green pants. I washed my hands, exited the bathroom, and entered my bedroom only to realize I needed to change my maxi pad. I should go to the bathroom and freshen up, I thought. And off I went.
I reentered the bathroom. I pulled down my dark green jeans. Plop! I turned around and watched my precious iPhone – my irreplaceable gift from Steve Jobs – drown. Soon, I pulled my love from the toilet. It was dying, the water killing it slowly. I pressed a button and the iPhone turned off. The screen went pitch black, as dark as the desperate abyss that was sucking me in. Desperately, I pulled the burgundy bathroom towel off the rack and wiped the water off the iPhone while whispering, “Come back! Come back!” Still nothing. And so I threw the towel on the floor, rushed out of the bathroom, and turned on my Mac, heading straight to Google to find solutions for this life threatening accident.
Put the iPhone in a bag of dry rice, a website directed. And another and another. I did what was instructed. 24 hours later I unburied my iPhone from the bag of dry rice. I inspected the phone and realized there was a particle of rice stuck in the charger area. I went to stand by the window and pulled up the blinds to get more light. The blinds fell on my head. “Fuuuuck!” I yelled, cursing at the Universe and my misfortune. But then, with one angry flick of the safety pin, the piece of rice flew out. I exhaled. Maybe the phone will work now, I hoped. Pressed the power button. The silver apple appeared for two seconds before dissapearing into oblivion. It’s dead, I concluded.
I am so fucked.
And now here I am. Pissed at the toilet. Angry at myself for not being more careful and at Mami for pointing out that I need to be more careful. Cursing Steve Jobs for making me such an Apple addict that I lost my motivation to smile and to be pleasant because of the loss. The only thing that is saving me from trashing a hotel room is my writing. As much as my joints are cramming because of typing on the tiny keypad of my old Blackberry Curve (I loathe the Crackberry), I am writing my way through the loss. It’s a fireproof way to heal and make sense of the unfairness of this world. It’s the only way to reignite my passion after an unexpected departure. And so I write…to rediscover my motivation and to poke fun at myself. I write so I can smile again and stop giving the world the finger.
Disclaimer: Sujeiry rekindled her love affair with the iPhone soon after writing this post. No Blackberries were harmed.