I just got back from the Verizon store. I would say the "cell phone store," but they said there are 89 million Verizon customers in the US. If you deduct the number of people living in rest homes, that equals the entire country.
I've always been against owning a cell phone. Except for a motor vehicle emergency, I can't think of a good reason to have one. I'm either at work, Target, home, or on a bus in between. I try to lead as unobtrusive a life as possible, which is harder than it sounds.
And companies have made the concept of cell phone ownership so alluring over the last 15 years that they don't even have to try anymore. I feel like I've become a member of a cult. We walked in and there was a guy who's only job was to greet us and sign us up for assistance, on a computer monitor. The other TVs showed their newest line of products and plans, more complicated than any moon landing manual.
Constant commercials shot out palettes of colorful, shiny cell phones, swirling like Borg children who looked like they couldn't wait to assimilate me and all my friends and family. Handouts and hands-on stations awaited us with 17 different models that had just been "launched," each with a phone book of fun features and plans to choose from. (Their newest model is the Droid. Its banner display proudly boasts an evil-looking red eye and claims to "know everything.")
I came home with a new cell phone, but I feel like it cost me my soul. I'll have to check the toilet-paper-length receipt "contract" and see if there's any fine print regarding the afterlife.
If I did end up selling my soul, and I do go to hell, at least I'll be able to send unlimited text of my fire-soaked agony to my loved ones for free.