The past few months we’ve had our ups and downs. In the beginning you were SO into me, you couldn’t keep your hands off me. You described me to your friends as bigger, better, and despite a very public “Bendgate” scandal, durable. We were together everyday, perusing shops, searching restaurants, and building a social circle. You would cling to me and look me straight in the eyes, full of intention. My knowledge impressed you. You’d lean on me for advice, ask me questions, and wouldn’t leave the house without me in tow. But recently, we’ve been growing distant. You’re reckless with me, treating me like I am no longer #1. I need to get this all off my chest.
You set alarms strategically two minutes apart, but you and I both know you’ll snooze all six come morning. You roll out of bed and sit me on the wet bathroom vanity, blasting Amy Winehouse to “pump you up, because you’re running late.” You’re always running late! Then you expect me to take the brunt of it when the bus zooms past us. It’s not my fault the time calculations were wrong, you never update my software. I’ll never forgive you for the time you left me at the coffee shop because you got distracted flirting with the barista that looks like a caveman in a beanie. That counter was germy and smelled like burnt grounds. Another barista held me captive and you ran back frantically to retrieve me a few minutes later. Or the time in Sevilla you and your friends made the genius decision to pound tequila before your flight back to Barcelona. All of you set us in the middle, stacked like jenga pieces. Five shots later, I was soaking wet, gleaming with lime and salt. You threw me in your purse on a bed of crushed Pringles and one very crumpled boarding pass. I still have some chip shards between my case, but you wouldn’t know, you never clean me.
I was chatting with some of the guys and I’m jealous. They said they don’t feel this sense of neglect, they’ve never been forgotten, or dropped a dozen times at a club. They said their batteries are full, app libraries robust, and HAVE SPOTIFY PREMIUM. My data is off and strong wifi is harder to find than “free water in europe” derived from your very own Google search. Speaking of Google, I’m simply appalled by your searches. Is Tupac still alive, torn vagina, cheeseburger themed birthday party, and what if I think my step-cousin is hot are among some of my favorites. Also, I am perplexed by the fact in one day you downloaded Tinder, made an account, then deleted it that night. There were some promising prospects like that guy who messaged you “what’s up princess?” I saw you gag, but it was quite unique and romantic in it’s own millennial esque way.
You’ve replaced me with books that have real pages and ink. You bought not one, but two journals. You’re sketching again and running every morning. You’re talking more, we’re interacting less. You haven’t Yelped or Tweeted in quite sometime. You’re becoming more in tune with the outside world and drifting out of mine and- Hey….wait….you’re leaving me….you’re….come back here! You left me sitting at the checkout line.