My phone broke. When I turned it on I was not greeted with my beloved home screen filled with nifty applications. Rather it resembled a first generation GameBoy; a greyish-green background with the sole word ERROR emblazoned in the center. ERROR stared at me, laughing and relishing in its Courier font.
So I had to get a new one. When I arrived at the phone store, I was informed of all the contract fees, application fees, family rates, divorced family rates, parents that want to be divorced but don't wanna have to argue over who gets to keep the dog rates and all the other bullshit I'd have to pay to get a nice, new BlackBerry.
Let's face it, if you want the latest cancer-inducing BBM machine, you're spending $300-$600 bucks.
Upgrades don't exist, insurance is a lie, and warranties only apply to phones that still play Snake.
For a second I glanced over at the rationally priced, understated, non-smart (retard phones? I don't know) phones against the back wall of the store.
I entertained the thought of getting one, because I'd had enough of this BlackBerry Bullshit. RIMjob, if you will.
Then I remembered something my friend Spencer once said to me.
"Like when I see a hot girl...and she takes out her phone, and it's not a BlackBerry or an iPhone, I don't want to fuck her, cause like...poor."
Okay, so Spencer isn't the most eloquent fellow, but he has a point.
Something about Pharell texting away on a Sony Ericsson prepaid is just not as glamorous as watching him chat about major deals on his solid gold BlackBerry.
You don't agree?
Allow me be blunt.
Ladies, getting fucked on the hood of a Range Rover sounds a little more enticing than in the back of a '98 Toyota Celica, doesn't it?
It's just how the world works I guess. Or my shallow little corner of it.