Dear Inventor of the Ubiquitous Touch Screen,
I would like to blame you for the proliferation of your public petri dish every time I check in for a flight or pay for a cab, as I poke at the greasy piece of glass, crunchy with french fry salt or dirt or things I’d rather not identify, wondering why I once found this experience to be high tech and cool.
Luckily, I don’t know your name, or I would mutter it under my breath as I wipe the face grease off my phone after receiving it back from a stranger who borrowed it.
I sometimes wonder if you snickered as you saw people begging for touch screen devices, thinking they were the pinnacle of status … premium technology … then cheering as the cost went down, accelerating the infestation of devices with your invention.
I do thank you for the fact that I recognize my own fingerprints, having seen them so many times – usually imprinted, translucent on the wrong letter of the alphabet, somewhere within a letter or two of the one I intended to poke.
In my heart, I secretly blame you for autocorrect. I know it’s wrong to harbor such resentments, but after the 100000th time sending someone a “nit” instead of a “note,” I just can’t help it.
At times I get smart aleck with Julie the automated Amtrak assistant or Siri, the cheery, but somewhat dim mobile helper and their friends. But at least they do not demand I drop everything to jab at them with my request.
There are many things for which I blame you, yet I don’t even know your name.
So instead, I blame Apple.
Love and Fingerprints,
Me