In my pants

After constantly giving me hell, I have finally decided to upgrade my mode of communication. Seriously, I couldn’t take it anymore. It would quietly go into a dumb and mute mode, not allowing any calls and text messages, incoming and outgoing. It was always switched on but there was no way of telling if I was connected or otherwise unless I tried making calls, at which I usually fail. At first I thought it was the network operator’s problem but the incidents became a regular feature in my clueless connectivity. Heck, I couldn’t even call my operator!

Needless to say, people often end up frustrated at the other side. The only indication was when there’s a message saying that I have missed calls. Even then, messages are hard to come by. It almost seemed like they were held up at a buffer zone and will only arrive after I give it a few knocks on hard surfaces; even that required a bit of luck. Our relationship was turning violent and it was only reflecting on me, myself and I.

There were times when we saw eye to eye but that kind of erratic behavior was just not healthy for either of us. Inevitably, last week was the time to move on and be a better man.

So this is my ode to my new companion, my sixty five hundred classic.



There is something in my pants, but no one knows it.

It makes a small bulge, but packs quite a punch.

It is delicate to hold, but a pleasure to touch.

It is not my navigator, but I bring it everywhere I go.

It is metal and plastic black, but it can really glow.

It is a small fortune, but that is truly my worth.

It gives me tunes, me pictures, me videos and me love.