Sorry, I Don’t Know Who You Are
I’ve dropped my phone in a toilet, lost it skiing twice, left it in a taxi, a bar, threw it out a thirty story window, lost seven in the back of my car, threw two in the laundry machine, smashed one against a wall, had two crash for no reason, and I’ve been dropped from cell phone insurance twice because I’ve made so many claims that I became a liability.
Of course, someone who loses and breaks their phone as much as I do should probably back up their contacts regularly, but I never do.
I like losing my phone because it means that once a year my entire contact list is purged of people that I don’t want to talk to.
They’re all gone. Sketchy contacts, random girls with only one name, and that Chinese restaurant I went to once when I was in Pittsburgh.
It’s liberating because chances are if I don’t know your number by heart or haven’t talked to you in a year, then I’m probably not going to talk to you.
It’s almost a perfect system until the holidays roll around and I’ve receive text messages from numbers I don’t recognize.
So to all of them I apologize for not knowing who you were. For not having your number memorized. For not having your information ingrained in my head.
But most of all I apologize because if we only speak once a year, then there’s a fairly strong chance that next holiday season, I will once again have forgotten who you are.
