My phones have drowned in lakes, swimming pools, and Vodka. They have been catapulted into floors, walls, and rabid animals. Cars violate them. Public toilets rape them. My phones are my lifeline to drinking companions and society. They do not allot me comparable appreciation.
Upon arrival in New Zealand, the family I au pair for presented me with a phone. The phone didn't include a calendar, calculator, camera, games, or, most important, a tip calculator. It had text messaging.
Yesterday, an Army intel man picked me up to go to a barbecue. I consumed a bottle of wine before I got in his car. I wore a stripper-short dress. I was surprised to see woodland as thick as my grandpa's nasal hair circumventing the house.
At the barbecue, more knee-height-and-below nurslings were in attendance than adults. A three-year-old asked me where my pants were. Of the adults, all but eight escaped with their tadpoles before nine.
By ten, an English girl and I ricocheted off each other on a trampoline in a backyard that I didn't know existed. I had thought it was just the bush. By ten after ten, England and I lay on our backs, our hair swinging together, stars chewing our eyes. Her boyfriend stood nearby, talking to us.
My memories terminate with a pool game, collisions with people and walls, and a new nickname: Rum Eye. Apparently I seal one eye and squint the other when I'm on the rum.
The next morning, Army Intel Man #2 rippled towards me. He must have been in a fight with a dingo. The couch cushions he slept on were camouflaged in soil. His khaki shorts were torn in half, his shirt looked like he had been bombarded with dirtballs, and one sandal had disappeared, along with his phone. My phone had exited my life too. Army Intel Man #2 couldn't extract a sane explanation for a night walk through the bush, why he had been in a fight with a dingo, or why he guised his sleeping quarters as if he were in Afghanistan.
After an intensive investigation for my phone, I accepted that my detective skills are as inadequate as my breast size. I bought a replacement cell. Within four days, the phone's back disappeared. A piece of tape currently holds the battery in place.
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