My Own Personal Cell . . . Phone

I don't like cell phones. I loathe them, to be quite frank. As opposed to being Larry or Bob, I'll be Frank.

That was a joke. Laugh. Or don't, just get it.

A cell phone is a piece of technological hoo-hah (and I have no idea what hoo-hah is, but it sounds full of contempt so it sounds perfect) that allows people to contact you at any moment of the day, at any place, in any situation. If you are falling off a mountain, the GPS chip will track you across the globe, whereas if you even attempt to listen to a song on the radio, your cell phone will suddenly get jealous and burst forth in song.

Because, yeah, it can play music too.

It can also take pictures. Record video. Email people. Surf the web. Fire a proton laser beam.

And I want it to do none of these things.

When I had to trade in my old phone as it had finally expired on the plan, I was told that I was to get something new and fresh. The smiling men, clasping their fingers together and chuckling, insisted that I choose something expensive and unnecessary.

My criteria:
- thin
- good price
- makes phone calls
- that's it

Their criteria, which they informed me of the moment I said all this and after they stopped laughing hysterically:
- covered in a sold-separately leather case
- has the ability to download music
- carries all the film equipment of a major Hollywood film production studio
- will ring incessantly and loudly
- did I mention expensive?

So, I have a phone. I have a ball and chain, and it costs more than my monthly rent. It costs and it costs me arms, legs, ribs, and my health.

I have with me a phone with several features I do not use. For instance, I don't take pictures with it, listen to music on it, and I don't use the email. Which defeats the purpose of this phone as all I wanted it for was to make phone calls, but I guess I lost.

I have a cell phone. And it does practically everything but what it should do: make calls.