Every day, I generate more digital stuff my older self might like to look back on – but there’s no way to manage it all
A few years ago, I faced an unexpected conundrum: there were only a handful of decent phone repair stores in New York, and even fewer willing and able to work on a 2010 Blackberry. There was exactly no one sympathetic to my plight, which was that I had to get my broken and long-out-of-service phone working again, because it held my high school text messages that was crucial evidence of my life.
For one brief, shining moment, the Blackberry had actually turned on. I scrolled through my long-lost inbox, looking for little forgotten treasures: written confirmation of teenage heartbreak, maybe, or records of lust, ennui, thrill, my eating disorder. But I didn’t find much. Mostly, I texted about homework.
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