I'm covering my windows with tin foil, Evil Necromancer Jobs!

I know what you're doing. Don't think I'm not onto you, Stevie.

I woke up this morning clearly under some Blackberry-focused wiccan spell. While trying to retrieve my phone from a high shelf in the bathroom - not exactly sure how it got there in the first place - I stepped onto the bathroom scale and nearly tipped ass-over-tea-kettle into the bathtub. Other uncharacteristically graceless moves have spotted my morning. But while I recognized that I was under some sort of hex, it was not until half an hour ago that I realized, in a moment of stinging clarity, who was casting it.

My Blackberry pearl, just a few months old, a jaunty red thing that has survived theft in Africa, meat schmutz in upstate New York, and endless pants calls and obsessive texting, was quietly charging on a table in the living room. I'd just picked it up to look in on its progress when Eric, in the kitchen, called out excitedly that I should come see the gelatinous substance that had emerged from the mason jar of six-month-old iced tea he was pouring out into the sink. Understandably thrilled, I turned to go to him while setting the Blackberry back down. But instead the cord somehow caught on my sleeve - dark magicks! - and my PDA went flying through the air in a fantastical arc - straight in to Robert the Dog's freshly filled water bowl.

This is something I can't even really by mad about. God has spoken. Or Steve Jobs. Same difference.

Julie, says God-Jobs, You must buy an iPhone.

Who am I to disobey God's will?