*continued from iBroke*
...What I saw was a broken, twisted reflection of my own internal horror. Words cannot express the nightmare I saw, only pictures:
Vainly, it tried to reassure me that it was unharmed. It still tried to display its visual splendour, but now it was distorted as if behind a terrifying carnival mirror, the kind where the malformed image that faces you leaps out of its glass prison and punches you in the face.
Forgive my ramblings, I am delirious, I have lost the one thing that connects me to the rest of the world when I am alone. If there were excess usage fees, they cannot even begin to resemble the excesses of my bleeding heart.
Quickly, I brushed my thumb across its lip, told it to sleep now, not to waste anymore of its precious existence in this world.
It was a long night. I was tossing and turning, unable to sleep because I longed for my iPhone to wake me up to tell me it had received some message from an intoxicated friend, or some electronic missive detailing some service that could be rendered for me from exotic Nigeria. Instead, it was silent. I could not sleep, because I could sleep. Are you yet quivering with dismay?
The next day, I trekked out to that retail conduit between us mortals and Cupertino. The Apple Store, Sydney. There, a kind hearted lady, a female genius, (a genia?) heard my sorry tale, but informed me that there was nothing that could be done. It was impossible to repair, only replace and since the problem was a result of my own awkwardness (I state again, I am no murderer!) I had no recourse but to seek the guidance of the carrier wizards.
She also remarked how amazing it was that such damage had been done to the phone (I am not ashamed to confess, dear reader, that I choked back a sob at these words). It had only been dropped from the height of my knee but somehow the iPhone had set upon the exact mystical trajectory that would smash its face in. Some kind of golden ratio of bitter tragedy and defeat.
She told me of a sapphire ring that she had that had met the same fate, and while outwardly I agreed, inwardly I thought: was your sapphire ring an iPod? Was it a phone? Was it a revolutionary internet communications device? Your tale is sad, but you ask me to compare baubles with a scepter of technological power. I have no more room in my heart for sadness.
Next, I consulted the carrier wizards I do not know if the people I spoke to were of the actual Richard Branson bloodline themselves, but I was struck by their nobility and poise. One of the staff, upon seeing such a tragic spectacle, called upon his manager they had, they remarked with equal parts sympathy and schadenfreude, never seen such a sight.
Did I fling it into the sky, they asked? Did I ascend the long neck of a giraffe to let it fall, or did I try to emulate Galileo at Pisa? No, I replied. I had dropped it from the height of my knee. All the rest was fate.
Now, dear reader, know that I did not insure my iPhone. At the time, it seemed almost malicious, as if anticipating some great malice I would direct towards it. Would you, upon meeting a friend, seek some assurance that you would be compensated if you dealt him some grievous bodily harm? No, you do not treat your friends this way, because you are not a sociopath.
They told me then that there was little they could do. No one could repair it, and so it could only be replaced and of course, the price of such an option would be equivalent to the price of the phone.
I was approaching a dizzying madness. I imagined smashing the windshield of my car in, and being told I would have to replace the entire car. The staff swam before my eyes one of them, and I am no longer sure if this is in the realm of fantasy or reality one of them suggested that since the phone was functionally sound, I could perhaps just apply a screen protector over the jagged glass, and continue as if nothing had ever happened?
Absurd! Be exploded! I stumbled from the store, gasping, clutching my iPhone, nestled in its original box, my thumbs almost bleeding from demonstrating how under the vicious shards the heart of the phone still resonated with beating.
This brings me to my current state. I tell you this, dear reader, not just as a warning, a tale to give you iPhone emphysema.
I tell you this because I've lost a loved one. A faithful ally, and a true friend. I hope that this tale will multitouch your heart, as it has multitouched mine.