I almost named this post The Death of a Salesman. But that would have been stupid seeing as I’ve never read the book. And I didn’t witness the death of a salesman. Instead, I named it The Death of an iPhone. Because, what else do you title a post when you murder your iPhone?
I. Am. So. Sad.
And mad at myself. But mostly sad.
I should know better than to tempt fate. She is a fickle mistress. Never ever remove your phone’s case.
How did this happen? I was charging my phone in the car. I removed the case so that the car charger and the phone port made contact. Was my phone in dire need of a recharge? No. It was at 88% but my sick head wanted that number to be as close to 100 as possible. Why oh why?
Somehow I dropped it on concrete immediately after I stepped out of the car. Fearing the worst, I picked it up. Sure enough, the dreaded cobweb of death graced the front of my screen. FML, people. FML.
Why couldn’t it fall on the carpeted car floor? Or the upholstered car seat? Or my foot, grass, inside my purse?
Should I go to Apple? Should I order a glass replacement kit and attempt to replace it myself? Or should use my husband’s iPhone as his company provided one for him to use? It won’t be the same. It won’t be my iPhone.
As I finish this post, I am wallowing in misery and self-pity. Because, really, what do you do when you kill your beloved iPhone? Have you broken your screen? What did you do? Did you replace the screen on your own? Did you take it to Apple? Did they replace it for you, and if so, what did they charge?
I hope Friday is better to you than it has been for my iPhone. Now, please excuse me, as I feel naked without my phone.
RIP, iPhone. It was real.