(Or my life as your smartphone’s cover glass)
Man, you’re taking big strides. With each one I bounce further out of your coat pocket. (Are you working out or racing to a plane?) Bump … bump … bump… OOPS! I’m out now and headed for the pavement.
I’m here to help protect your screen, so I worry how this will end. You don’t seem to notice that I’m free falling, twisting and somersaulting like an Olympic snowboarder dropping into a halfpipe. Except I won’t be nailing the landing.
Fortunately, I am ready for this: I am strong. I am tough. Again and again, I have taken abuse and come back for more.
But I wasn’t always so resilient. Born from sand, I’ve systematically been made myself stronger, leaner and more agile. For the last decade, I’ve entrusted myself to people in white coats who put me through the ringer so that, like the snowboarder, I’ll peak at the perfect time.
They bend me. They drive pipes into my midsection. They fire baseballs at me. They hoist me up and slam me to the ground. They drag diamond tips across my face. They clearly enjoy this and invite people in to watch.
Although I never bleed, I do crack when they apply enough force. They laugh – then probe every fissure and shard in my broken body, calling it science.
Whatever they choose do to me, I come out tougher, every time. But the cycle never ends. They just return with more brutal tests. Honestly, I do get why: My purpose is to rise to the occasion when you need me the most and with each new generation of Gorilla Glass my chances of survival from a tough drop increase.
I plummet past your waist, past your hips, and past your knee. I’m landing on your shod foot midstride – oof. Booted by you, I’m now skittering across the plaza in front of the theater you’re apparently racing to. A heavy person steps on me. Smothered by his weight, I grind along the polished granite. He stumbles as if on a banana peel.
You stop, you realize what’s happening, and your face is frozen in fear (for your phone). You reach into the tangle of strangers’ feet, pick me up, wipe me off with your sleeve, and check me out. I’m okay! Half-relieved, you press the home button. Phew. All is well.
And life goes on. I’m back in your pocket, and we enter the theater.
The show is good. I’ve done my thing. And tomorrow is another day. It’s as likely as not that you will drop me, kick me, fling me, scratch me, squish me or slam me again.
Go ahead. I’m ready.
I am a beast. I am Gorilla Glass.