I didn’t have any friends in high school, but I did have a phone. It was 2010 and I begged my mom to get me an iPhone for Christmas. She said no at first, but then on Christmas morning there was a little white box under the tree. Opening it was a ritual unto itself—a slow, smooth uncoupling of matte cardboard parts. The device itself was even better. I spent all day learning it. I didn’t have any contacts then, not even strangers online. I had the app store. I played skeeball with the flick of a finger. I took photos of my room and washed them in a retro filter. I sprayed digital graffiti on a digital wall. My new phone was a toy chest, a dozen gifts in one, arcade meets art supply store. I lay in bed all day, switching between apps, discovering new ones to download. Within hours, it was an addiction. I was fifteen years old. I had just gotten my first period.
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