My phone broke. My beloved HTC Evo 4G with the superb call quality and camera, vast amount of storage and endless hours of app happiness. Gone.
A few months ago it dropped out of my hand and landed on the tile floor. When I picked it up there was a web of cracks on the screen. I can't tell you how many times that had happened before without incidence. Fortunately the phone still worked. I put some packing tape across the screen to protect my fingers and cheek from the sharp edges. It gave me another month or so of service before the screen went black.
I'm not really sure what the nail in the coffin was but it may have been when I leaned down to grab something and it slid out of my purse onto a concrete floor. Or, it could have been the condensation on my water bottle that got my whole purse wet. Or, it could have been that I left it in a hot car on a hot day to charge the battery. Or, it could be that I had it in my back pocket when as I got into the car squishing it between my skinny-jeaned-butt and the seat belt latch that sticks up out of the bench seat. Or, it could be a combination of all of the above. They all happened the day the screen died.
The funny thing is I could still get phone calls. I could still activate the phone and press the screen and hear it sliding between apps. I could even get the dialing pad to scroll up and could hear the numbers being pushed. I just didn't know which numbers I was pushing.
I went through withdrawals. No internet access on the go, no music to listen to while running, no Map my run or Mormon Channel or Sprint GPS or text messaging. I didn't have any one's phone number and couldn't access my calendar and email and task lists on a whim. I had to get my real scriptures--you know, the one's made of paper--to read with the family at night and to take to church with me. It took me a few days to remember that I could look up the news online instead of using my phone.
I will miss it but will not be replacing it with a similar model. And that is a story for tomorrow . . .