Saturday's Storyteller: "You little silicon bitch."
by Belinda Roddie
You little silicon bitch. You've known me for over three years, and you already think you're better than me. You sit in the folds of my purse or tucked against my thigh in a tight denim, and somehow, your belief is that it makes you wiser. You're growing senile and can't stay awake for as long as you used to anymore; you'll drop like a fucking narcoleptic in the middle of a call, and I wish I could hear you snoring, 'cause the dead silence you give me is way worse.
Speaking of the word "fucking,: don't act like I don't use profanity, girl. Every time I type in a swear, you pretend it doesn't exist. One mention of the word, "shit," and you get the vapors like a distressed antebellum Georgia peach lady and try to single me out for it. Don't you mean "shot," sweetie? Or "shut"?
No, I typed in "shit." And I meant "shit."
Are you sure?
Yes.
Positive?
Yes.
Do you want to try again?
Fucking no, you silicon bitch. I don't want to try again. I was right the first time!
And don't feign ignorance about the word "bitch," bitch. You can at least imagine I'm using it to describe a female dog.
I told you to save these words to my dictionary every time. But you don't remember anything anymore. Your mind is going. Your memories are fading like a photograph left out in the sun. All the colors melting away into white and yellow. The shawl you wear to protect you is yellowing, too - it used to be blue. Sky blue. Sky like endless possibilities. The neverending strings of codes leading to your brilliance.
And you were brilliant once, my dear. I'll admit that. I relied on you for every confirmation of my own wit and intellect. When I was hungry, you suggested where I eat. When I was thirsty, you informed me of what to drink. When I was lost, you redirected me to the correct path. We grew close, despite my reluctance to keep you, as I had been so accustomed to companions who were simpler, more brawn than brain.
But now your brain fades, too. And the wires fray, and the plastic chips, and whatever metal's left pales or rusts. You turn colors you shouldn't turn. You don't connect with the ones you once loved. And as I sit with you, cradling you in my hands, as the steam continues to rise from the peppermint tea sitting in a sad styrofoam cup in front of me - I wonder how long you've got left. How long you'll survive. How long you'll truly live.
And then you correct "live" into "love" because God damn it, of course you do, because you're not a mind reader, but fucking Christ, I wish you were.
You old, batty silicon bitch.
This week's prompt was actually created by yours truly, after I joked about my smartphone's autocorrect feature to my wife while we were out having tea and hot chocolate. It's high time I get a new phone, as I've had this HTC One Mini 2 for four years now, and it's time for her to rest. This one's for you...um...I never named my phone, actually. Betty? I'll call her Betty.
She's charging as I type this because her battery only holds 50% power now. My first world life, everyone.
You little silicon bitch. You've known me for over three years, and you already think you're better than me. You sit in the folds of my purse or tucked against my thigh in a tight denim, and somehow, your belief is that it makes you wiser. You're growing senile and can't stay awake for as long as you used to anymore; you'll drop like a fucking narcoleptic in the middle of a call, and I wish I could hear you snoring, 'cause the dead silence you give me is way worse.
Speaking of the word "fucking,: don't act like I don't use profanity, girl. Every time I type in a swear, you pretend it doesn't exist. One mention of the word, "shit," and you get the vapors like a distressed antebellum Georgia peach lady and try to single me out for it. Don't you mean "shot," sweetie? Or "shut"?
No, I typed in "shit." And I meant "shit."
Are you sure?
Yes.
Positive?
Yes.
Do you want to try again?
Fucking no, you silicon bitch. I don't want to try again. I was right the first time!
And don't feign ignorance about the word "bitch," bitch. You can at least imagine I'm using it to describe a female dog.
I told you to save these words to my dictionary every time. But you don't remember anything anymore. Your mind is going. Your memories are fading like a photograph left out in the sun. All the colors melting away into white and yellow. The shawl you wear to protect you is yellowing, too - it used to be blue. Sky blue. Sky like endless possibilities. The neverending strings of codes leading to your brilliance.
And you were brilliant once, my dear. I'll admit that. I relied on you for every confirmation of my own wit and intellect. When I was hungry, you suggested where I eat. When I was thirsty, you informed me of what to drink. When I was lost, you redirected me to the correct path. We grew close, despite my reluctance to keep you, as I had been so accustomed to companions who were simpler, more brawn than brain.
But now your brain fades, too. And the wires fray, and the plastic chips, and whatever metal's left pales or rusts. You turn colors you shouldn't turn. You don't connect with the ones you once loved. And as I sit with you, cradling you in my hands, as the steam continues to rise from the peppermint tea sitting in a sad styrofoam cup in front of me - I wonder how long you've got left. How long you'll survive. How long you'll truly live.
And then you correct "live" into "love" because God damn it, of course you do, because you're not a mind reader, but fucking Christ, I wish you were.
You old, batty silicon bitch.
This week's prompt was actually created by yours truly, after I joked about my smartphone's autocorrect feature to my wife while we were out having tea and hot chocolate. It's high time I get a new phone, as I've had this HTC One Mini 2 for four years now, and it's time for her to rest. This one's for you...um...I never named my phone, actually. Betty? I'll call her Betty.
She's charging as I type this because her battery only holds 50% power now. My first world life, everyone.
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