I’m Messenger. If you have a phone, you probably know who I am. I run around your phone and deliver texts and E-mails.
My life is busy.
I roll over in my bed. My bed is made of lots of deleted E-mails. My blankets are thick and warm because they’re made of 55% text.
Someone taps me. I open one of my eyes. “I’m sleeping.” I say.
“Well, you’re awake now. Amber Simmons is getting impatient because one of her texts isn’t sending. You need to run it over to Margo Adams.” It’s my employee, iMessage.
“This early in the morning? Why is that kid up so early?” I ask groggily.
iMessage shrugs. “She and Margo are having a sleepover tonight. She couldn’t sleep. She was too excited. And if you ask me, she still is.” iMessage looks over at the huge window of my room, with Amber’s face looking eagerly at her phone. Amber’s hair is curly and dark. She has toffee skin and big green eyes. She’s biting her bottom lip anxiously.
Amber’s my user. She’s the one who’s phone I message in. I have met most of the apps that have come and gone from her phone. She’s had Minecraft (because her brother insisted, and well, lets just say that Mr. Minecraft was deleted five minutes after downloaded.), she has Twitter and Facebook, but Instagram and Snapchat are her favorite. I love the cute doggy face pictures that she makes. On my free time, I have coffee with Snapchat, but she mostly just takes selfies the whole time. Instagram is too busy hearting things, and I can say this, I guess I can’t blame them. I text a lot.
I have met EBooks, but he’s more interested in Dictionary. What can I say? They’re perfect for each other. They’re both.... smart. Brainy. Overly mature. You get the flow of where I’m heading.
I have met a few different outfit apps. They love styling me and clothing me in lots of cute outfits. They’re such glamour queens.
I closely know Spotify, and we’re great friends. She has a great voice. Well, great voices. She can switch to the different voices of all the famous singers.
“Messenger! Hello! Can you hear me?” iMessage waves her hand in front of my face. “Hop to it! Send the text!”
I push her hand away. “Why don’t you do it?”
“I can’t. Amber’s using the Messenger app. Besides, Margo doesn’t have iMessage. She uses Messenger. And Snapchat.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes I hate my job. I slide my shoes on and hop onto the Charger. That’s the train I use to get around.
I’m headed to Margo Adams’ phone.

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