The crisp air encompasses the paper I wrote last year for English- an essay on World War Z. A photo of me and my mother from our vacation to Mexico floats by and then is lifted up, twirling around the white marble on blue satin. Through all of this, soft, fluid music glides. I recognize the song: “Valerie” by Amy Winehouse.
When people talk about iCloud, this is what I picture my “cloud” looking like — all of my hard work, my memories, good and bad, my favorite songs, that embarrassing video from last Christmas, all hovering across clouds in the sky. What is this “cloud” everyone is talking about, though? Where is it? Is it a legitimate place? Why is it that everyone uses it, yet no one seems to know what it is? When talking about iCloud, the “ignorant American” stereotype shines bright. Sort of like how we are all fat. And loud. And rude. However, in this instance we fit this notorious stereotype. Honestly, no one knows what it is. Ask the person next to you. Can they explain it? No, they cannot. Told you.
This past summer I got a new phone and computer for reasons privileged children get new phones and computers: none. I went to the Apple store with my mom and as the overenthusiastic bald man set up this and that on my new devices, he asked me if I used “the cloud” or if I wanted to purchase an external hard drive. I turned to my mom for the answer, like any child does, but unfortunately realised this was another one of those adult moments. You know, like having to