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Like everyone else, it goes “get half-drunk, fuck around on my phone.” The Atlantic:

At some point I’ll wind up at a favorite West Village trattoria, where I can be left in peace, over what sometimes amounts to several glasses of wine, to play with my iPhone. I’ll check my email accounts, responding to whatever seems semi-urgent or unignorable; guiltily log on to Twitter to see if I’ve lost any followers to boredom; maybe hit a news site or two—and that’s about it. I know the iPhone is stuffed with wonders, but I’m ignorant of most of them.




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