I want to kill my cell phone.
I want to offer my cell phone to a demolition derby and watch it get whipped around and brutally crushed for twenty minutes by a green monster truck with pointy teeth painted on the doors called “La Chica Mala” before being towed out of the ring as a sweaty audience throws popcorn and half-full soda cups at it.
I want to feed my cell phone to an alligator without causing the alligator any digestive issues.
I want to drop my cell phone into a vat of acid and pour that acid down the sink of the apartment I rent, then call my property manager and say, “the drain is clogged again and I don’t know why.”
I want to take my cell phone on several dates and indicate with all certainty that I’d like to get serious with it. After a month and having gotten the cell phone’s guard down, I will go radio silent. Once the cell phone politely requests more time together, I will tell it I was never looking to have a cell phone in the first place, and I think another ear is better suited for the device, also can it Venmo me for bowling?
I want to cut my cell phone into cubes, then add it to a nice bowl of diced tomatoes, mangoes, cilantro, lime, salt, pepper, and a dash of cumin, bring it to a potluck dinner, and tell the host to keep the leftovers and not to worry about returning the bowl.
I want to throw my cell phone as the first pitch at a Dodgers game and watch Mookie Betts swing and crush it into deep left field.
I want to use my cell phone as a pigeon in a skeet shooting outing that my soon-to-be in-laws take me along on because they think I’m some city slicker who isn’t good enough for their son, but when I shout “pull” my cell phone soars into the air and I nail it like a dead-eye and it shatters to dust and all of my in-laws are instantly won over; the little sister with asthma, the green-eyed uncle who keeps kissing me on the cheek too close to my mouth, and even my fiancé’s mother who was especially skeptical of me after learning I was a vegetarian.
I want to hit my cell phone with a hammer.
I want to whack my cell phone in the head with a frying pan so hard because I believe it to be a home invader, then upon it crashing to the ground, realize it is not breathing and that I have just committed phoneslaughter in self-defense. I would wrap the phone in a black tarp and drive many miles into Northeast California and dump my cell phone into Mono Lake in the dead of night. The act would haunt my conscience and I would develop a tick in which I’m always washing my hands but can’t seem to get them clean, nor ever fry an egg again.
I want to stare at the black mirror of my cell phone as it clings to the edge of a cliff and sneer, “Long live the king” before I toss it into a wildebeest stampede.
I want to drop my cell phone off at the fire station in a bassinet with nothing but a note that reads, “I’m Sorry” and a locket with the name “Jobs” engraved on it.
I want to drop my cell phone into the mouth of a volcano in hopes of bringing peace to the land after a long, arduous quest in which I learn valuable lessons about loyalty, faith, and the impermeable bonds of true friendship.
I want to write a letter to my cell phone about all of its flaws and shortcomings and bad habits and instead of leaving it in a drawer, mail it priority in an envelope full of glitter.
I want to do horrible, wretched, unspeakably angry things to my cell phone.
I want to kill my cell phone, because all day long, I act like I want to make love to it.