On Tuesday, I spent approximately three hours and fifty minutes plagued by thoughts that my iPhone was broken, before the nice boy at the Genius Bar fixed it by pushing two buttons. He also “cleaned up some software,” a process that resulted in me losing a fair number of the phone book contacts I have added in the last year. But not any text conversations. Oh, 734-223-[redacted], also known as the person who texted me “the party is at dannys this week” in the wee hours of the morning on May 1, who are you? Using context clues, I was able to deduce about 93% of the nameless numbers and program their names back in. After all, you have to know which person you never want to see again is inviting you to which poorly lit hipster bar, right?
 
On this list: Mark Roof, Kevin Shoes, Owen Bandit, Adam Elevator, Damien Neo and Bill Rubiks Cube, so named not because he was exceptional at solving the 3-D plastic puzzle, but because I met him at a party where everybody showed up wearing six colors and left wearing one. Adam Elevator courted me by noting what button I pushed in the elevator, calling my then-place of employment (the only business on the 8th floor; he worked on 6) and asking me to lunch. Shoes and Roof are bars, Neo is a nightclub defined by its high volume of European dancers and smoke machines, and the Bandit is another story for another day.

I wonder if I’m in anyone’s phone as [first name] [last name designated by where we met or other discerning thing about me]. If so, I hope my last name is either Hangge-Uppe or Karaoke.