I Am A Cellphone That Misses Those Political Campaign Texts
I miss you, political campaign texters. I long for those days of your persistent messages stressing the importance of voting in this presidential election. My world, and screen, is dark without them. Just cancel my service and send me to that big electronics recycling bin in the sky!
The first message subtly caught my attention. “Can I count on you?”, an unknown number flashing on my screen. Your messages made me light up from the start. “Who is this?” my owner rapidly replied then sat me down. That was our norm those days. But I waited with bated breath for a reply from this mysterious messenger. What happened next would warp my mobile world forever.
The response was a lengthy, impassioned plea, ending with:
“The fate of the world is in your hands! Will you commit to voting in this election?”
The message oozed with an urgency that roused my CPU in ways only a hard reset could. And so, began our brief affair.
For weeks, your messages arrived daily, creating a slow burn to lay the foundation. Wise, since I can overheat. I felt valued each time you asked,
“Can I count on your vote?”
Suddenly, my owner began handling me more. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. And I enjoyed this newfound connection. His hand gently lifting me to meet his gaze, peering into my screen with those piercing brown eyes, as I analyzed every curve of his face, giving him permission to unlock me. An intimate dance that happened so infrequently before your arrival. We could have lived this dance forever.
Then the big day arrived. Your communication intensified, causing me to pulsate uncontrollably at the receipt of each message.
“This is your final chance to vote. Can I count on you today?”
“Record voter turnout is expected today. Be one of them and vote today!”
“Polling locations are closing at 8 PM. Can you get your vote in right now?”
Your messages sent me into a fit of wretched convulsions while my screen glowed from the insistence of each one. There was nothing I wanted to drain my battery more. I slept soundly that night, with thoughts of the day’s events replaying in my RAM. Do not disturb mode on, I’m dreaming.
The day after the election, I awaited your message. My screen glistening with pride and a fresh antibacterial wipe down. An “I voted!” sticker as proof of fulfilling your request was on my lock screen. But the hours ticked by, and no message. The next day came and went and nothing. And the day after that and still nothing. So, I panicked. Actually, I froze, and my owner restarted me. I was hopeful the messages were in the cloud but alas, nothing came through upon reboot. I grew frantic, yearning for another message expressing the urgent need for my vote. But a screen-shattering revelation that no protective case could prevent occurred to me: the election was over, and so were we.
My owner became distant again. Our intimate dance was now replaced with occasional finger taps and fleeting glances to check the time or a system update. I even caught him eyeing the newest model so my trade-in must be imminent.
I’m never gonna dance again the way I danced with my owner. And I’m never gonna text again the way I did with you.