loveatfirstbyte
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I left my Nexus 7 for a younger model
Dear Nexus 7, We need to talk. We've been together for nearly four years now and have had some good times, haven't we? I mean, you were my first tablet. I'd never met any device like you before. You were gorgeous. I'm still not sure how you managed to slip that ample touch screen of yours into a Poetic slimline case, but you made it look effortless. We were inseparable, you and I. You were my streaming-content remote, my internet radio and my guide through some of the kinkiest porn sites the web had to offer. We used to go everywhere together. Remember the trips to NYC and Las Vegas? Or the weekend getaways to our cabin in Tahoe? I didn't even need internet access there, all I needed was you. Those were some of the happiest times of my life, and I'll never forget them. But, baby, you've changed.
I broke my DS, and it broke my heart
I never loved my first Nintendo DS. It was gray, plastic and chunky, thanks to its weird angular shape. It didn't have a lot of interesting games at launch. That first DS (aka the "DS phat") was a corporate gift from my bosses at The Pokémon Company, and that initial transaction always tainted my interactions with the thing, because it wasn't something I'd have bought for myself. It never felt like it was mine.
My toxic relationship with fitness wearables
Fitness gadgets were meant to make me a better man. Or at least a healthier (possibly more attractive) one. Over the course of my wrist-based romance, I've strapped on a Fitbit, a Jawbone Up, two types of Nike FuelBand and an Apple Watch. Surprisingly for me, it's the Apple Watch that got the most extended use, given that it wasn't defined by its fitness features. Yet, since November (midway through a fitness challenge at Engadget), I haven't worn anything when I'm working out, nor anything to monitor my activity during the day. I've had enough of the constant nagging.
Atari Lynx: A romance of high scores and low batteries
Like most tween crushes, the attraction was instant and overwhelming. I remember the first time I set eyes on the Atari Lynx as if it were yesterday. It was perched on a shelf, center stage, behind a huge pane of glass -- a window display in a branch of Dixons on Park Street, Bristol. There it sat, so near, yet (at about about £85, or $100) so financially far. The Lynx didn't know I existed, even though I was just a few feet away. In my preteen mind it felt unfair. My situation felt hopeless, which of course only fanned the flames of my forbidden desire.
