I am a big magazine boy with many important things to say about the Samsung Galaxy S7 smartphone, but the most important thing you should know about me is this: I have done Bad Things.

The Samsung Galaxy S7 smartphone is thin, like that student in my Undergraduate Writing Seminar, the one from two years ago. She—the phone—is also stunning; her sharp angles like the razor cheekbones on the last girl I tried to save, will always be trying to save. Sometimes I dream about what could have been, if I’d only gotten there sooner, before she reached her late-twenties.

But I digress; this phone will never betray me by aging.

It’s true—this is an essay about a smartphone. But there’s another, more pressing issue driving this review: Myself. For I contain multitudes you couldn’t possibly understand—just look at the Bad Things I’ve done.

I won’t address them directly, though I’ll allude to them, by way of reference to a woman I once loved who ruined me, making me the Bad Boy I am today. Everything I am, everything I’ve done—lying, cheating, masturbating to my own byline, I did for her. She was beautiful, with large breasts and a pulse. But in the end, I wasn’t enough for her, or perhaps she wasn’t enough for me—no one ever is. If you’re not a big magazine boy reviewing the Samsung Galaxy S7 smartphone, you wouldn’t understand.

There’s a word that comes up in old country songs: “Hey.” And that was how I felt when she and I parted ways. “Hey,” the world called out to me. “Hey,” I called out to the world, mostly via Twitter DMs. “Hey,” my mom texted me on the Samsung Galaxy S7 smartphone I’m reviewing. I didn’t respond to her using the smartphone’s 4G capabilities, because I have more important things to do.

I wasn’t always this way. Once I was satiated, dog-earring the pages of my Bukowskis, content in the knowledge I too might one day drink alcohol and write about the Bad Things it makes men do. At that age, life was like a plump peach, ripe for the taking, ready to give me the pleasure I have always known I deserved. But that was then, and at some point in the ensuing years my life has come to resemble a dried out apricot that smells like cigarettes, of which I smoke many outside the bar because my delicate, artistic sensibilities can’t bear it inside among the unenlightened anymore, at least until someone shows up with drugs.

A philosopher once wrote, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened,” and the phrase rushes into my head like a late-night freighter, as I stand there, holding the Samsung Galaxy S7 smartphone in my hand, in which it fits comfortably despite its large (and impressively sharp) screen. Maybe it’s time to let the past fade into the past. After all, if you burrow deep enough into the abyss, eventually you won’t see anything at all. But even in the dark, I’ll still know if she’s hot.

New Orleans jazz funeral saxophones wail somewhere outside the halogen-lit hallways of this seedy hotel, where I’m writing this review, on a typewriter.

The phone comes in white, gold, silver and black.


The Cuck is Gawker’s pop-up, bespoke men’s interest site.