I plugged in my iPhone in for a routine overnight charge when it began to reject its cord. "Bleep bleep," the display flashed, "bleep bleep." I removed the white lifeline, and plugged it back in. "Bleep bleep," it repeated – flash – "bleep bleep." Puzzlement.

The phone displayed twenty percent remaining battery life. I raced against time to get a charge into the fading phone – swapping cords, changing power sources, even trying the magical two-button-reboot. No luck; Siri died a slow death; fifteen percent, ten, five, zero, and the display went black.

A food blogger needs her phone. More than a medium of communication, my iPhone served dutifully as a camera, a radio, a social media check-in device (I’ve lost two mayorships since I’ve been without my phone). It’s a log of where I’ve been, what I’ve eaten, and offers insulation in awkward social settings and a diversion in boring ones. It wasn’t just a phone, it was an extension of my palm, a part of me. I dressed it in a purple Speck case, that had a slot for my drivers license, a credit card, and bit of cash. It was all I needed to move efficiently about society.