“Technology is killing our generation.”
Such a broad statement cannot be taken seriously; it’s a disservice to the collective dialogue about where technology is going. Speech like that is so corrosive and divisive that the simple thought of it makes my IQ drop a fraction of a point.
However, my Note 7 really is trying to kill me.
“Note 7, it’s not you, it’s me. But I have to return you.”
I practiced it over and over again in my head, preparing for the conversation I knew was coming. I looked at it while we watched YouTube on my bed, but the only thing I managed to say was, “I’ve already seen that video.” It can sense the tension, too, and dims its screen. I guess I’m tired as well, maybe I’ll just go to bed.
The Note 7’s recall hit me a little hard. Some of these phones have self-ignited and exploded, but my liberal tendencies make me want to claim that not all Note 7s are the same—just because a few have caused some fires doesn’t mean mine will. The “Trumpalitarian” Samsung wants them all out of the country. Their press release might as well have read, “They’re sending phones will a lots of problems. They’re explosive, corrosive, deadly, and I assume some of them are good phones.”
I stood in line for tens of minutes for this phone. I spent time customizing it to fit me. It’s mine in more than just a legal sense. You iPhone users might not understand this, but the connection with an Android phone is a deep one. It’s the difference between buying a model year Mustang and rebuilding a 1969 Fastback. I put work into making my phone mine.
Nay, I say. How dare you take what’s mine?
My phone manages my life and keeps me on track academically. If it wasn’t for this device, my life would be in shambles.
However, this weekend I went to the beach and got some sand in the charging port, so I’ll be returning it soon. It makes an icky noise when I plug it in at night.
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