Rock the Vote

If anyone ever gets a hold of my phone, I’m off to jail. Good bye. It’s been nice knowing you. You’ve all been so great. My phone is chock full of evidence against me. Exhibit after exhibit of conversations and images and videos to assassinate my character and destroy everything I have ever accomplished in life. And I know I’m not the only one.

 

A phone is such a personal thing. It witnesses all your conversations- the version you told your man about last night’s party versus the version you told your best girlfriend. It knows your bank account number and more importantly, your bank account balance. It houses the other 37 pictures you had to take before you were finally about to catch yourself at the right angle in the right light. It has the non-photoshopped “before pics” of your side rolls that you took the last 12 times you started a new diet. It’s seen the sexy messages along with the NSFW pictures of your naughty bits AND it knows who you sent them to (if you are a freak). It also knows that you copied and pasted the same pictures and messages and sent them to a second person (if you are a super freak). It knows your search history- “why do I have a grey hair down there”, “when to use their versus they’re versus there versus the” “Obama nudes” “high quality fake Birkin” “butt pads for cheap.” It knows everything.

 

A phone is the blueprint to your soul. The key to who you really are- the unadulterated uncensored unretouched version of you.

 

Black and Blue (#TBT)

It was right around 7 a.m. I was half asleep but could hear the faint chugging of the PeopleMover outside my bedroom window. Closer, I could hear bells. It took me 5 seconds to realize that my phone was ringing. I picked it up. It was my good friend, X.

She had returned to Detroit after a trip to Vegas with her boyfriend. She started to tell me about it.

“There’s a good part and a bad part.”

“What?”

“He bought me a dress…”

“That’s sweet.”

“… for 7,200 dollars!”

“That’s serious.”

“It’s blue. Really short. It’s a tube dress. The sides are all open. And it has like, black elastic strips, connecting the front and the back…”

So far it sounded all good, “So what’s the bad part?”

“No one will buy it from me.”