When they give you an iPhone you are getting a tiny hell full of flowers, a piece of black glass where you can see the world. Not only you get the iPhone, so happy birthday to you and we hope that it lasts because it was designed in Cupertino; they are not just giving you that little computer that you will carry in your pocket and take everywhere you go. They give you – they don’t know it, that’s the terrible thing – they give you a new fragile and precarious piece of yourself, something that is you but it’s not part of you, something you have to get into your pocket or hang on your belt every time you leave the house. They give you the need to plug it in every night so it doesn’t stop being an iPhone; they give you the obsession to answer your emails at anytime and in the most unusual places. They give you the fear of losing it, or dropping it, or that it will come near a really strong magnetic field and forget all the things that it remembers for you. They give you the obligation to know everything… the weather, the stock price, the address of a restaurant, the ingredients of a recipe or the information of a flight. They give you the tendency to compare your phone with other phones, phones that you don’t have but could’ve had. When they give you an iPhone they are not giving you a phone, you are given, you are offered to the iPhone for his birthday.
Dedicated to the Dude, of course, who got an iPhone this week. With apologies to Cortázar, author extraordinaire who wrote the original piece. My version in spanish can be found here.