Opinion | I Don’t Care. I Love My Phone. - The New York Times
My phone is my favorite possession. I wish I could pretend it has been some torrid courtship, that after much cat-and-mousing the two of us succumbed to our mutual attraction and decided to settle down and make an honest go of it, but I can’t: I am in breathless pursuit, hustling to keep her updated and paid for, wooing her with expensive protective cases and as many off-brand charging cords as there are outlets in my home. She acknowledges this attention with occasional notifications, blinking on the screen, reminders to update, so many needs. That makes me want her even more. I know that having her carelessly bouncing around the bottom of my bag all day and on the nightstand inches from my sleeping face, readily available for when I need to look up “recipes for morons” or “the best way to wash a cat,” is putting my precious information at risk. My phone is always listening, and through a series of bloops and bleeps I do not understand, the data I have spewed into the universe gets so
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