Dear Paige R.,
I think we both knew it would come to this. It's just about
over between us. But first, you are
going to listen to me for a change.
We have been together a long time. Heck, when we first
hooked up, we were perfect for each other. Back in the ‘80s, any guy looked
pretty cool with you attached to his hip. Your cute little chirp, or your
gentle hum, those were the only ways to keep in touch. And in our line of work,
communication is vital.
But things have changed. That musical alert has turned into
the wailing of a newborn. And I should know; I have raised plenty of infants. But
after all this time, I shouldn't have to cradle you in my hands and follow your
shrieking commands without hesitation. You, of course, take no input from me. But
I am expected to react to your every whim.
As soon as you screech, I fumble to pluck you from that
holster on my hip, which now feels less like a cool accessory and more like a
tumor. I squint at your tiny gray screen (How did I ever find it so sleek and
sexy?) and wait for your message to appear. Sometimes you give me a long,
detailed correspondence. And I appreciate that, I really do. But more and more
all I get is a name or even just a number. I can't tell if the hospital is
burning down or if you want me to get extra napkins from the cafeteria. Those
cryptic games might work for James Bond, but not me.
You see, communication is a two-way street. I didn't really understand
that back when I thought you were the only thing out there. But I've met other
forms of communication. I've flirted with cell phones and computers, text
messages and emails. I know how instant communication works and I like it. I
shouldn't have to run to your cousin, Ms. Landline Phone, every time I want to
return your message.
So I am writing to let you know I've had enough. The only
reason you are still around is because I haven't had the guts to toss you in
the trash. But I can do better. I mean, not even drug dealers use you anymore!
It's time you went the way of the messenger pigeon and the Pony Express.
We have had a good run. But as soon as your last battery
dies, it's over. I won't be the one replacing it anymore.
P.S. Tell your friend Fax
Machine we need to talk.