She bought a Blackberry which counseled her heart and head with weird advice; and with its interface she found the imagined presences of a sister, of NASA, of Mt. Kilimanjaro, and of all the effluvial ephemera that convinced her she had had a childhood.
But this technological beauty became too unpopular to show in public; and it was regretted only a few days after she had rolled its playful ball beneath her thumb, and she buried it with her own hands, with her own hands she buried it, one night when Big Brother showed on the teevee, and a contestant costumed as a banana clung to the pommel of a mechanical bull, so summer must have settled like a green cheese souffle. She buried it with her own hands, not another person’s hands, repackaged in its orange box, now a sepulcher, senseless and fragile as the corpse of a sleeping beauty princess.
And as she stood downloading a gigabyte of emotional content, she started buffering choppily in disbelief at the Blackberry that seemed identical to the one recently put in stasis, which glowed in the evening air with a hummed and paranormal malice and texted, hovering with woe, “You bitch! I am the soul of the Blackberry! the geist of all your contacts and photos, guardian of the webs! I am an honest-to-god Blackberry! And to punish you for your caprice and conformity, you shall forever lust after trendy new trends!”
She paled with wonder, and she replied swiftly, scrawling on the wall: “OMG! OMG! OMG!” And to express her horror into the cosmos she communicated so graphically on Twitter that her tweets congealed into one fantastic exorcism of schizophrenic despair; and now, like Alice passed through the looking-glass and died, she’s become ONLINE, probably until the end of the internet, in the soul of the Blackberry.