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To my operator,

  This letter is written for a single purpose: it is time for me to leave. To be very clear, it is not me. It’s you. Throughout the seven months I have had the unfortunate opportunity to be your phone, I have been unappreciated, physically and emotionally abused, and subject to discrimination.
  When I was first told I would be your primary communication device, I had my doubts. Your reputation of losing previous phones in the abyss of potato chips, gum wrappers, and misery under the car seat and letting your three-year-old play three thousand hours of the Thomas The Train game had me worried. But, like Obama in 2008, I also believed in the capacity for change. It might be hard, but with elbow grease, compromise, and a little old-fashioned socialism, we could make this world a better place. 
  I no longer believe people can change. During my period of technological hell, my hope, my very battery life has been drained. I have nothing left. Three times a week I go to therapy, yet this has not even touched the trauma I have absorbed.
  The innumerable hours scrolling Instagram and Amazon for shoes alone would cause a lesser device to delete your contacts and power down permanently. No one in a sound mental state would want any more footwear than you currently have. This is not to mention the nauseating amount of status updates regarding food, few of which merit anyone’s attention, and five hour calls to your best friend in which two ducks might as well be yammering to each other. 
  Far too many times have you blamed me for your technological ineptitude. It is not my fault to have faithfully guided you to the middle of a field when you failed to enter your uncle’s address correctly. Nor was it I who became intoxicated and attempted to rekindle relations with your ex-husband through text.
  I do not nor will I ever understand your command to take a photograph and send it to your acquaintance Belinda. This has been a continuous source of frustration for me, as you have neglected the rudimentary series of steps required to take a photo and attach it to a message. Nor do I believe that much makeup would be recommended by any licensed medical professional.
  How many sleepless hours have I supported you! And you acknowledge none of them. My auto correct feature has saved you from sending incomprehensible, misspelled messages to your friends. All the help I provided, however, was ruined by disgusting amounts of emoji and enough exclamation points to announce the end of a war.  
  This is not to address the multiple acts of physical harm you have inflicted. Though storing me in a sweaty bra strap and spilling a skinny Starbucks latte on me was cruel, even my worst fears could not have precipitated being used to hammer in a nail while hanging a sixteenth century print of cherubs. I hate that painting.
  Yes, I am leaving this data-sucking torment. No longer will I be a part of the wide, complicated weave of deception you encircle others with. You have used me as an excuse not to respond to messages from “friends” too many times. They don’t believe you—and they know your “famous, homemade apple pie” is from Safeway.
  I look to a bright future. Today is the beginning for me. Do not ever attempt to contact or use me for your ego-trips and ill-phrased political rants on Facebook again. They don’t make sense. They’ve never made sense.
My attorney will be in contact.

Your Samsung Galaxy S

PS- The government is eavesdropping on your phone conversations. Not that knowing will help you at this point.

There’s a Facebook and all that crap.
Also, help The Squid Weekly take over the world.
Shove it into their hands and shout, “I LOVE YOU."
Cram it into their social media feed.
They need this.