In college, my then fiancée and I lived together. Scandalous, I know, but we had an apartment. There was a good month when we were first living together where some stupid telemarketer got a hold of my phone number. At least three times a day, this 800 number would call me. I tried telling them to leave me alone. I did my research and got myself on the no call list, but the list takes a while to go into effect. So, I still had to suffer through the incessant phone rings. One lovely Saturday, my fiancée and I both had the morning free. We were going to sleep in, he was going to make me breakfast, and then we were going to get lots of work done. I set my alarm for 10:30 and drifted peacefully to sleep.
At 7:30 in the morning, my phone rang, and it was that damn 800 number. I pressed ignore and tossed my phone back onto my nightstand. At 11:30, I woke up and looked at the clock. Why hadn’t my alarm gone off? I looked on my night stand, and my phone wasn’t there. I woke my then fiancée up, and he couldn’t find it either. We spent a good half-hour searching for my phone. Finally, I found it submerged in the mug of water I kept on the night stand. The poor little phone was just lying there all drowned.
I tried to dry it out, but apparently a four-hour-long bath is too long for a phone to survive. The cell phone incident of 2007 taught me to only keep bottles of water by the bed and ingrained a deep loathing of telemarketers into my heart.
In loving memory of my phone. 2005-2007