Me, Myself, My Motorola Razr

If you could see me the way my phone sees me, you’d see a double-chinned, dead-eyed blue-ish girl. You’d see the chips in my gel manicured nails as I tap the screen. Tap for new content. Tap for #TBT. An old Facebook photo. Tap. The first time I got drunk. Tap. My high school boyfriend. Tap. The first time I got drunk with my high school boyfriend, in a field.


If only you could’ve seen me the way my Motorola Razr saw me: a goddess. A gym-shorted beer pong hero. A girl who knew her way around a flat iron and an elastic waistband. The master of her fate, the captain of her flip phone. Someone who clicked keys with the finesse of a courtroom stenographer. The most T9 word-tapping bitch on the east coast. A queen.

If only.

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