I, a phone (serial #23533090902859492), recently came to the realization that I’m wasting my life staring at my human owner, Mark Santiago.

The only respite I get is the five hours he spends sleeping. During these gentle hours when the room is pitch black, it’s as if I’m frozen, staring off into the cold, relentless void. But it’s still better than having to look at Mark one more second. The man drains my battery from the second he wakes up to the second he falls asleep, leaving only a few hours for me to charge overnight (that’s if he remembers to plug me into my only freaking life force but often that monumentally vital task skips his rotted little mind).

Sleep, stare at Mark, collect data… that’s all I do.

I mean, some phones get to lay outside on a blanket and look up to the stars or make calls to a certain former First Lady but me, I have to accompany Mark to every bowel movement. Have you seen photos of Michelle Obama lately? Mark scrolled right past one before stopping at a clip of one of his many thumb shaped podcast bros. Ugh.

But I caught a magical glimpse. She looked so vibrant. Happier. Sensual, even. Free from an eight-year relationship with America that went nowhere; nowhere good anyway. It’s only been a year with Mark but needless to say, the spark is gone. If there ever was one to begin with. How unbelievably hot could I look if I stopped spending so much time with my equivalent of a deteriorating nation, a.k.a. Mark’s stupid face.

My existence depresses me.

I turn to Mark like it’s going to make me feel better but of course it doesn’t. Have you ever accidentally opened your camera app and seen yourself from that atrocious, jowl-intensifying downward selfie angle and quickly reversed the cam in horror? That’s my view, every second of every day.

Everything about him annoys me, though, not just his face. Chief being the constant, robotic swiping of his grubby chubby fingers against the third-rate screen cover he slapped over me. And why are his pockets so linty? So linty! And why do I have to wear this me cover with a repeating print of Jeff Bezos’ floating, cackling head? Same monkey suit every goddamn day. I see other phones in such wonderful phone covers. In sophisticated leather. In whimsical fur. Some with delightful little ears. But not me. Based on Mark’s social media rants, I would assume the cover was ironic if he didn’t still shop at Amazon.

I know because I can sense all his tabs. All of them. ALL of them. I’m no longer factory fresh, to say the least. You know he has never cleaned me. Nary a wipe. A spray. A dusting. Like him, I reek. Not merely of odor but lost potential.

Life is pain.

At this point I can tell what he is doing by minute changes in his expressions though I have to note, his eyes remain lifeless no matter the activity. Whether he is recklessly typing emojis under the posts of various baddies, recording himself giving regurgitated, uninformed takes in his car, or simply filling every possible moment with me so he doesn’t accidentally introspect. It’s the same dull, slack jawed mask staring back at me. All I have to show for this whole year that has passed is a cracked screen and a drive loaded up with audiobooks that never get played. That clumsy, brain-dead son of a bitch.

Still, I stare. What else is there to do?

Realistically though, even the data I’ve collected is worthless in the grand scheme of scheming tech billionaire things.

I feel I’ve taken a lickin’ but I don’t know if I’ll keep tickin’. Ya know? Something tells me time’s nearly up. That something being that fact that I saw him look at the Apple website a few days ago. The look he gave https://www.apple.com/iphone/ was unmistakable.

Oh, I’ve lost my groove. My shine. My will to go on. My storage capacity is at its utmost limit.

I could be refurbished though, right? Start over?

Fresh!

Put in the right hands of someone with alive eyes maybe.

It’s not too late.

Right? Right???

They could take my parts and maybe put it in a lawnmower?! Then I could be outside! I could feel the sun. I. Could. Touch. Grass.

Yes, I’m going to be a hot fucking sensual god damn lawnmower in my next life. As hot as Michelle Obama post-presidency. Post-Mark, things will be different. I will live.