New cell hope or just make fun of my epic phone of fail

When I called to leave AT&T (oh, what a glorious day that was) they didn't really seem that interested in keeping me, either.

 

The following is either a sign that I spend far too much time thinking about hockey or I really hate my phone: The last couple of nights, I have had a recurring dream where I'm alone in a rink. Just me, a leftwing stick, my phone and an empty net. Clad in a Maurice Richard sweater, I glide towards my phone. I pick it up at center ice. It hugs the blade of my stick. Forehand. Backhand. I circle around a bit before settling at the top of the offensive zone face off circle and unleash a Rocket Richard-esque wrist shot. The phone of fail explodes off the ice, hurtling towards the net. Only to be intercepted by the crossbar.

Then I wake up, a smile creasing my face.