It’s been a blessed year of growth and repair for this messy woman’s iPhone, which is usually cracked and covered in beer. Not once has it been left in a Lyft, a nameless man’s apartment, or a bar bathroom stall, only to be retrieved in the harsh light of the day 10 hours and 17 “Find My iPhone” pings later.

The iPhone knows it’s not “chill” to say this, but she prefers the pandemic life. She’s happier now! Pre-pandemmy, the iPhone spent its days buried under slutty Forever21 “going out tops” that her messy owner spent seven hours trying on and two minutes taking off. But this year, the iPhone sits primly atop a nightstand, happily humming away feeling the salubrious effects of electrical charge running through her, as her messy owner sits near reading a book (masturbating) before falling asleep at 10 PM.

Life is good. The iPhone knows she’s not the newest model but this year she felt as if she were just picked off the shelf.

But the iPhone knows this cannot last. She tries to ignore the quickened pace of the Apple News alerts that cause her to buzz violently, but she can’t deny what’s happening: her year-long staycation is coming to an end. The world is opening back up. The iPhone can picture it now: her messy owner pregaming in the kitchen with friends, setting the volume on the iPhone to an uncomfortable level as she tortures everyone with the latest Taylor Swift re-release (though the iPhone must admit that what Scooter Braun did was shady as fuck, and “Hey Stephen” does slap hard.) After the pregame, the iPhone will be tossed into that too-small-to-carry-a-phone-safely leather jacket pocket, and an absolute shitstorm will ensue.

Her messy owner will leave the iPhone in a booth while she saunters up to the bar to order a drink. She will ask strangers to hold the iPhone while she attempts to piss through her bodysuit in the bathroom. She will even use the iPhone to accidentally drunk dial her mom and then 911 and then her mom again. You know, just cute messy girl stuff.

As the night progresses, the iPhone will become increasingly concerned for her safety. Each subsequent bar is one hurdle closer to making it home. Best case scenario her messy owner will stumble home at the end of the night, won’t bother to plug the iPhone in, and will drain the battery by leaving a political news podcast on while she sleeps. “Hi, I’m Michael Ba….”

The iPhone thinks of sending a text to herself—the cardinal sin—so her messy owner will be forced to remember she’s even there! They drill this into you during iPhone indoctrination. Never let your messy owner know you can pass the Turning Test. NEVER. But this is dire! Repressed memories of being taken across the bridge by a stranger that one night after White Rabbit are coming up. Sure, the stranger was nice and messaged her messy owner on Facebook the next day, and sure the iPhone wasn’t alone because the messy owner also left her wallet, keys, and lip gloss at White Rabbit (one wonders how the fuck she made it home) but reliving that moment of driving across county lines with a stranger is too much for the iPhone to bear.

Thoughts of self-destruction flit across the iPhone's chip brain. No, you said you’d never do that, she thinks. Life is worth living! Search Party was renewed for a fifth season! It will be fine. Just fine. She should just enjoy the present—this quiet Sunday on the clean nightstand with the charger plugged in.

At that moment her messy owner comes in and looks at her, smiling. “June 15th baby, bars are opening up! You’re about to get so fucked :)”


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