Yes, believe or not, Apple makes faulty products too. Machines fail, but preferences are preferences.
Anyways, before I ramble further. On a particularly tough day at the end of an extremely eventful 2015. I arrived late to to the yoga class, held up everyone's practice and had a particularly tough time with the asanas. I suppose my mind was not calm.
I thought about everything.
Especially the "what now?"
Unemployment is a motherfucker. And for the majority of 2015, that is what I have been, unemployed. I remember not even wanting to complete 29, what a failure I must be. Not that I've not tried. I just always, allow the wrong man into my heart and life, body and mind space. Trust people, who will definitely give me the "et tu Brute?" experience. Now I am adjusting myself to a small circle. Trying to remind myself, that though the circle is small and as grateful as I am for them, I should not asphyxiate them with gratitude and attention. That is still a task I am trying to master.
I would "un-friend" almost everyone on Facebook, if I didn't have to meet people on the street in curious hysterics because I removed their photos and memes and posts from my newsfeed.
Not like we're real friends online or off, so I can't ever comprehend the reaction.
People are strange and social media plays up the strangest, most complex parts of ourselves. Devices, especially phones, do too.
This one I have is a refurbished response to dropping my iPhone in the toilet for 3 seconds. 1 month, after several unnecessary conflicts and $300 USD later, it came in the mail. Things aren't made to last, especially now, and anyone who understands technology knows that refurbished is code for glorified crap stretching itself beyond technical limitations.
Walking to the bus after class, as usually happens, when someone calls I take out the headphones to take the call, the music app does not work when I try to resume locking out the sounds of the world with my music.
As I furiously tap the screen trying to reestablish sound, men, another reason I put on headphones, say "hi".
I laugh. Inside only. I don't smile and I don't look receptive.
I know these losers. They chase you like life until they fuck you then they are no where to be found. They look through you like air.
So I don't say "hi" back. Nope!
In I walk into a reprimand from one man, I am still not sure if he was in his capacity of clown or paramedic. "Don't walk and text!" He hurled angrily at me.
Not that it mattered to me in the least. I could have avoided what came next, but I felt the burning urge to make him he see how wrong he was about me, as all these losers are.
So I show him the frozen music app, and say: "I'm not even texting. See."
Well no! The average Belizean man does not take nicely to being corrected by a woman, the lesser of the two sexes, not in public, not in private, no where, at no time.
So of course: his retort?
"I di try help da chupid one she, and she wa halla aata me. Stupid bitch!"
Now I am mad obviously. How many times should men tell me and try to show me that I am a stupid bitch?
So I let him have it:
"Leave me alone!" Or maybe I said that before?
Rage makes memory fuzzy.
He railed back how stupid I was, and that I am so stupid "sohnbadi shuda jus teef ih phone, fu chupid, simple rass bitch!"
To which, I respond, all the endorphins of the workout having drained themselves from me, "don't be a jackass! Leave me alone!"
"Dehn shuda teef yuh phone, yuh bitch!"
Darts thrown at my back in the black night....