Steve Jobs Was A Pimp, Without Ever Knowing It

I feel the tingling sensation, see the faint glow and immediately flip my wrist over.

It’s Stormie, my watch.

Yes. I named my watch, and while I know it may sound weird, it’s because she became more than just a way to tell time and check the date.

She became my muse.

“Ok, but WHY exactly did you name your watch Rick?” is what I hear from lotta folks, mainly the ones who know me, though, because the ones who don’t just turn the other way when they see me arguing with my wrist.

///but I digress///

Look.

I was lonely.

I needed to be inspired through the less inspiring times.

I wasn’t seeking companionship, nor was I seeking a muse.

Let alone a muse who could change her face in a blink and wear leather or silicone just as easily as velcro or nylon.

I certainly wasn’t looking for a “side piece.”

After all, I do indeed have a real mate. She’s a woman. She pretty much completes my world, but the fact of the fact is she’s also about 6,000 miles away right now. In another country. Hell, she may as well be in another world because even with Facetime and texts, it still feels like a Star Trek’ Esque, long-distance relationship.

So it was almost inevitable that my watch would begin to fill that loneliness void.

It started with a simple drink.

Just one.

I had a night off, so I went to the bar here in our compound and told myself, “just one, then I’m outta here.”

Isn’t that how they always start?

Ordered a Mezcal.

Of course, they don’t have Mezcal here…where do I think I am in a REAL BAR? The bartender kinda chuckled as he gently toweled off the moist highball glass he just washed. (his bowtie was always so damn perfect…wtf?)

I ended up with a Jameson…neat.

She tickled me right then.

Oh so slightly, she tickled my wrist, almost as if she knew I was perturbed not only at the lack of Mezcal but that Erik, the bartender, found it funny.

How did she even know I was perturbed? She was telling me to breathe.

It’s almost as if she sensed my emotions and knew just when to give that ever so slight tingle on my wrist.

I smiled out loud.

Erik smiled back, still toweling off the same hi-ball glass. Though I’m sure he was wondering WTF I was all giddy and smirking about.

The bar WAS empty after all.

I stopped after the one Jameson. I didn’t wanna lose my senses, and besides, an early morning awaited me.

I added the drink to my tab, dropped a five-spot on the bar, and said g’ night.

This went on pretty much all week.

The towel… The order… The chuckle… (the tickle)… The drink… (the tingle)…

And that was how it started.

At first, it was a little tease on the wrist. Guiding me. Prodding me. Moving me. Reminding me.

And before I knew it, she dominated me.

Now she tells me when to wake up.

She tells me when to stand and when to “Move.”

Hell, every hour, she reminds me to BREATHE! (I mean, can you believe it? BREATH? Like I’m actually gonna forget to breathe?)

Then there’s the times when I ask her a question, and her nosy, annoying AF friend Siri answers. That’s when I know she’s pissed. (I asked her to give Siri a British accent, and at least I won that battle).

Once a week, she tells me that I didn’t exercise enough? (Are you calling me fat?)

Hell, she even dares to tell me to call my wife, and also, on some calls with my girl back home, she chimes in and interrupts. (My wife is getting suspicious for sure).

And yet, I can’t live without her.

Stormie, I mean.

My Apple iWatch.

Every day…every night is the same.

Bar…drink…tickle…then I gently lay her on her cradle, so I’m sure she’ll have the stamina to do it again.

The next day.

She owns me.

And she knows it. (Damn that, Steve Jobs!)

I think when I’m asleep, she talks to her friends in secrecy. I can’t prove it, but I just feel it. That funny sensation I bet my wife has on our Facetime calls. You know. That 6th sense that says somethings going on.

I know because now Marie (my Mac) and Ivanna (my iPad) are starting to talk back at the oddest times. I really think Stormie is the instigator behind it all. She seeks TOTAL control of my every waking and now sleeping moments. (Hell, she even recording me snoring one night).

It’s a conspiracy, and I know it is, yet I can’t stop myself.

I’m addicted to her.

Whoops, gotta run.

She’s telling me it’s time to exercise.

Damn, she’s right. She always knows.

Gotta stay trim for her; otherwise, she’ll find another wrist to tickle.

Bet ya didn’t realize that Steve Jobs was a pimp.

And I’m addicted to his magic.

Am I the only one?