BRB, let me Instagram that. ... Hang on, where’s my phone?
I thought it was...wait.
And so the harsh awareness washes over you: Your favorite toy is gone.
First reaction: retrace each blurry step.
Everyone just got a lot louder, more annoying, and in the way, and no one seems to care that your child is missing.
You try to laugh it off with your friends and stay hopeful.
Even though your friends are thinking this:
Dejected, you go home feeling like a doof.
You try to rest your weary little head but it ain't really happening.
And for a moment you wonder whether cosmic justice is real, and where you might've transgressed.
You call the bar the next day. No dice.
It's OK, it's OK — let's just fire up the Find My iPhone app.
Negotiating with the terrorist starts with a gentle approach...
You might opt for humor.
But all is silent at the other end of the string.
Sometimes you wonder whether your first stupid message blew the whole rescue mission.
And you're sitting there watching the kidnapper toting your pride and joy around the city, and you can almost taste what it'd be like to have it back.
Time slides away and in your corner, things are a little bit crazed.
Aggression slips out as the hours pass.
Then comes the 11th hour. You're phone is near death. Time to accept it and erase everything forever.
You will now have to go to the AT&T store.
What's this? Eligible for an upgrade, you say?
And you suddenly remember what life was like two years ago, when you first got your phone.
YOU'RE BACK IN THE GAME.
Now all that's left to do is meet Siri.
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