I Got An iPhone 8 And Now I’m Irresistible To Men

I Got An iPhone 8 And Now I'm Irresistible To Men

Never mix wine and tequila, kids. Or do, because this story has a happy ending, with a shambly beginning. I was at my old roommate’s house the other day — he’s a piece of shit. We kicked him out of our house for drugs (the bad kind), and for inviting his sketchy friends over, and for generally just being a shady human. Still fun to party with though, so I went to go do some of his drugs when his gigantor female roommate sat on my boyfriend’s lap. Listen, I don’t approve of people touching any of my things, but if there’s one thing I absolutely will not stand for, it’s sharing my boyfriend’s attention with literally anyone. One thing led to another, I told her she was crushing him, and somehow I ended up being thrown (yes, physically thrown) out of the house, and my poor iPhone 5 came crashing to the sidewalk with me.

Once I got over the initial shock of all of the blood that was streaming down my leg, my attention went to the poor thing that was dying right before my very eyes: my phone.

Sure it wasn’t much. The screen had already been slightly cracked and the ratchet phone case featured Kylie Jenner’s ugliest faces, but it was mine. And I loved it. It had been through breakups and makeups, called me Ubers to get me away from both situations, and the pizza for when I got home. It had the numbers of cute guys and the numbers of girls from high school I sore I’d keep up with. It had group texts and screenshots from every interesting conversation I’d ever had in my life. It housed the obnoxious playlist that I put on every time my drunk ass was able to fight for the aux cord and all of the bad music from my middle school punk phase that I listened to when I was alone, or drunk, or alone and drunk.

Like a true millennial in college, I considered my phone to be more of my home than any shitty college dorm room that I threw a tapestry up in. Now, in front of my very eyes, it was glitching, flashing colors as the tiny pieces of glass from its broken-beyond-repair screen fell out. I sat there – at rock bottom – on the sidewalk, with blood pooling around my leg, feeling the very real pain of loss.

I used my boyfriend’s phone to call my dad (aka the bearer of our phone account and my credit card) and told him the heartbreaking news.

“It’s about time. You were carrying around a hazard. I told you to get a new phone with your mother and brother months ago,” he said coldly, as if he weren’t even talking about a loved one. “I’ll call our provider and see the quickest we can get you a new phone.”

Long story short, two days later, a giant, rose gold and white, iPhone 8 Plus fell out of a UPS truck and into my hands. This was oddly reminiscent of the time my new boyfriend had a dick two inches bigger than my old boyfriend. It was just the same, but different. And I didn’t quite know what to do with the monstrosity I saw before me.

This new, terrifying, device has an all-glass back, so the first thing I decided to do was go to the mall (naturally), so that this phone wouldn’t face the same death as my last one.

While waiting in line for a coffee, as I was idly trying to figure out how the fuck to use the thing, a hot, typical, hipster Starbucks dweller came over to me. His type normally rolls his eyes at my basic coffee order and general demeanor, but this guy seemed…impressed.

“Woah is that the new iPhone 8 Plus? Can I see it?” he asked, as his bony hand grabbed it out of mine. After a short few seconds, he said, “So this is brand new, eh? How about I be the first phone number in it.”

What was happening? My frappuccino-drinking ass was usually the anti-type to the hipster. Dressed in letters, toting around a chihuahua, they’d usually rather swear off Bon Iver and foreign films rather than be seen with me. Yet one of there very own was hitting on me? In the wild, no less? Weird.

I made my way to the Apple store, preparing for the worst. I was used to the pretentious store employees not having the time of day for me, and feeding me the usual line of “this is why you make an appointment online.” When I arrived, the only person available fit the stereotype of a snarky Apple employee to a tee. With a hobbit-like stature and a non-ironic beard, he looked like he had never gotten laid through high school or college, and now spent his days taking it out on people who just wanted to learn how to work the fucking iCloud. After searching around the store for a damn case, I finally went over and asked him. Without even an eye-roll or a condescending remark, he led me over to the limited selection.

“Oh, is this all you have?” I asked, with the slightest hint of disappointment, as the phone had slightly grown on me the past few hours, and I hated the idea of covering its with a black, leather, dad (not daddy) case.

“I know, these aren’t the nicest,” he continued, as my jaw almost hit the ground. “But we have a way bigger selection online. There are even Kate Spade cases there.” I thought that this would be the end of our surprisingly pleasant conversation, but he kept going. “You might need some help navigating the website, let me go get my personal card.”

Kate Spade? It’s like…he wanted to impress me? And then teach me about a website that any middle schooler could navigate? If that wasn’t a boy in love, I don’t know what is.

Now walking quickly out of the mall, a boy who looked younger than my little brother pulled away from his crop-top and legging wearing high school girlfriend and started walking over to me. “Is that the iPhone 8?” he yelled. “I told my mom that that’s what I want for Christmas.” I started to speed-walk faster, partly out of fear anyone who might describe me as “old” and partly because the last thing I wanted to do was talk about this damn phone anymore.

I finally made it, safe and sound, onto the bus. “Excuse me, ma’am,” a guy said as approached me. 


“Um, I just wanted to tell you that you dropped this, he said, handing me my bus pass.” He started to walk away, and turned back, “I’m more of an Android type of guy.”

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Hiding from my mother and standards, both of whom would disown me if they heard most of these stories. Aspiring law school student, with a chihuahua named Bruiser and a head of unnatural blonde hair. Email me your "crazy" stories or any mixed drink recipes that taste like juice, but have copious amounts of vodka in them at [email protected] Watch the bitch behind these stories at:

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