1-800 Ishii-can't-keep-a-phone-to-save-her-life.

My goddamned third iphone, lost to the ether, again. I can't say it was stolen this time, but I left it at a bar late Saturday night and no one can account for it come Sunday afternoon.

I was told to let myself be freed of that tie to humanity, by someone who later showed me an SMS conversation in his iPhone, the nature of which was a throat-choking threeway invitation at 5 in the morning. I told him to give me his phone so he could be "freed." Shit. If I had that in my phone I wouldn't give it up either.

I'd always been so proud of my stories about plenis and plunus, and I never ever blush, but aforementioned David Choe's SMS conversation really took the cake. My craziest SMS conversation was from a guy who on our first date told me his favorite things to do were "scratch lottery tickets and online poker." In other words, a winner. But, quite unexpectedly, the text message he sent me a few days later maintained a poetry and precision of a true artist, and so I'd kept it all these years later.

GOT A BOTTLE OF VICODIN. WANNA TAKE THEM, GET DRUNK, AND DO IT?

All caps. And that's the thing you really miss when you lose your phone. This thing is a real loss. The anthropology of cell phones. For example, I spent the worse half of 2006 chained to the tether of sweet digital nothings proffered from a boyfriend who refused to call himself as much. That phone has been long lost. I ordered my very first cell phone on September 10, 2001, for emergencies. Lost. The very first boy I made out with had a 1-800 number for his pager, and I thought that meant he was generous.

Behold treachery.

To commemorate all that is wrong with modern phones, I am getting the weakest, most functionless phone on the market right now. Something with no memory or memories, and no more than 12 buttons.