I Love You, Man

The good news:  I'll never be bored again.  The bad news:  I'll never get any work done again.  It was easier to feel above it all before I had one, easier to extol the virtues of my ancient relic.  Hey, it took care of my basic communication needs.  Leave me alone.  But now that I have my own iPhone, mine, all mine, I get it.  It's freakin' wonderful.  And I'm in love.  It's a chemical thing.  A festival of endorphins. I'm all giddy and nervous when I turn it on.  I want to impress it.  I want to give it a special name, like Slim or Sleek or Mr. Style.  If an iPhone has a gender, mine's a man's man, a Harvard grad, a raconteur, an explorer. If an iPhone has a gender, mine's Cary Grant.  Suave and debonair, well-heeled, fully-loaded.  A guy who sail.  A guy who owns a little winery up in Napa.  A guy with his own jet.  I'm over the moon.  Ga-ga.  Meshugana.  I hold it in my hand and babble, incoherently.  I say the following: "Tight apps."  "Sweet apps." "Nice apps.  You been working out?"  My iPhone has everything a girl could ever want.  Instant recipes from the best chiefs in the world?  Oh, hell yes.  Instant fitness tips from some random dude I've never heard of?  Why not.  He must be good, cuz he's got his own app.  I want my own app, too.  Instant Short Jewish Gal.  Clearly, I'm in trouble, people.  Yesterday, I sent a photo of my feet to the college boy.  "Someone's having fun with her iPhone," he texted back.  Oh, I'm texting now, too.  I'm on Twitter.  I'm out of my mind.  Addicted.  I need a new outfit.  I want to look hot for my iPhone.  What's wrong with that?