screw you, phillip

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Prior to Phillip's birth, there were just screwdrivers. Then Phillip came along and invented the wrong kind of screwdriver. I've been blaming him for all manner of stupid crap ever since. The strangulating seat belt that tightens up every time you twitch? Phillip did it. The splashless gas pump that you have to hold the whole time? Task-stopping error messages shoved to the edge of the screen where you won't notice them? Recipes with 600-word steps that delve into the entire prehistory of brining? Phillip, Phillip, Phillip.

Last night, it was the rounded casing of my old PS3, which makes it impossible to stack anything in my AV cabinet without the aid of velcro. So atop my component stack is a gleaming, rounded PS3 wallpapered in velcro, with modems and routers and a burglar alarms randomly stuck to it like ornaments in a Christmas tree. Thanks, Phillip.

This morning, it's all of the message boxes in my life. No, Phillip, I don't want to download your bloody app. No, you irredeemable fucker, I still don't want to allow your app to monitor my location. And I won't tomorrow or the next day, either. Likewise, I don't want to give PayPal, Google+, and Facebook access to the GPS-tracker in my pocket, nor the contact information for everyone I know.

Phillip, you seriously need to step off. It used to be just an extra trip to the toolbox, but now you want my soul.