An Addict is a Sad Thing

I dearly love my iPhone -- in ways that are illegal in some states in the South -- and I was in the Santa Monica Apple Store the other day to have its oil changed.  The little switch that turns the ringer on and off had busted -- in the most elegant way possible -- and I wanted to see if I could get a new one.

Well, Apple apparently doesn't make replacement little switches that turn the ringer on and off -- if they did, they'd be $45 -- and the nice hipster with the tattoos and piercings and fro-comb and disturbingly sunny helpfulness said he was just going to go ahead and give me a whole new phone.

Well.  OK.  I'll settle for that.

So I handed him my phone and sat down and reached into my pocket to get my phone because I had ten minutes to kill.

My phone!  My phone was gone!  I slapped my pants pockets and my shirt and, oh no, oh no, oh--  Wait.  I just gave the Apple guy my phone.  Right.  Whew.

I just have to sit here for ten minutes, until they give me my phone back.  So I reach into my pocket to get my phone and--

Dammit!

So I stand up and go play with the demo models.


 




★