There was exactly no one sympathetic to my plight, which was that I had to get my broken and long-out-of-service phone working again, because it held my high school text messages that was crucial evidence of my life.
Every single day, I generate more and more stuff that my older self might theoretically like to look back on: reams of text messages far more than the average 75 exchanged per day, as well as photos, videos, emails, social media likes, and metadata of my million Google searches.
Instead of relying on small devices designed to become obsolete, I now pay for cloud services to keep everything in a vast, vaporous, overwhelming pile. For $2.99 per month, they preserve my 200+ GB digital attics.
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