*** ‘Vignette City’ is an ongoing project of daily writing and urban photography ***
I have not paid my cell phone bill in 16 months.
After 1 month, I worried.
After 2 I worried a lot.
After 3 I was scraping my nervous skin off.
After 4 months I entered a fugue state.
After 5 months I expected each text to be the last I would ever send, as though the final end of my service would somehow come down so hard that I would be crashed by it and die.
After 6 months I began to accept that the end was inevitable, but that it’s coming was not.
After 7 months I began to enjoy being alive. I accepted every email, every restaurant recommendations, ever call with a happy chirp in my heart.
After 8 months I began to appreciate everything: free data, sunlight, push notifications, how nice it felt to suck cold morning air in through my nose to wake up my lungs.
After 9 months I forgot to be worried. It was the best time of my life.
After 10 months I forgot the whole situation, I had a my first gallery show and I met Darcy
After 11 months I had a little gray waiver of worry because Darcy and I were primarily phone/fuck-based at that time.
After 12 months I didn’t even think about the phone because Darcy had a really big bed and really fascinating urges.
After 13 months I completely forgot that a phone could be a problem because all of my problems were called That Fucking Bitch Darcy.
After 14 months I acted like my phone got disconnected because Darcy got diagnosed and she needed someone to cry with and that just wasn’t going to be part of my life.
After 15 months I mostly sent emails trying to get another gallery show.
After 16 months I thought all the time about texting Darcy, but couldn’t think of a good way to ask if she was still alive.
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