My Samsung phone’s soul is probably writhing in boredom, but is probably used to it.
I hardly grab it, except when I can no longer fight my ear’s craving for music. It’s playlist has it all: Eminem and Linkin Park for my mad days; Gabrielle Aplin and Sarah Bareilles for my girly gush; or The Glitch Mob for coloring my mundane hour with beats and horrible cussing.
I seldom need calls or text messages. My current model isn’t geared with many apps (hint: the celly ain’t went pass the Galaxies). But it’s sufficient and believes it.
My Samsung phone’s soul writhes in boredom, but it swiftly passes.