The Phone in She Memes Well: Connection, Distraction, and the Double-Edged Cost of Going Viral

What the Phone Literally Is

In She Memes Well, the phone is never a single, fixed object. It appears as the camera phone that recorded Quinta Brunson's first viral video, the iPhone she fixes at the Apple Store, the receiver she speaks into during a disastrous phone-sex gig, the device that delivers a call about her cousin's death, and the screen she scrolls when she cannot face her own grief. Because Brunson's career is built on internet comedy, the phone is the physical hinge between her private self and her public persona. It is the tool that makes her famous, the job that pays her rent, the line to her family, and the source of the very anxiety she keeps trying to escape.

The Phone as Origin: From Camera Phone to Viral Fame

Brunson's origin story as an internet comedian begins with a phone. In the opening chapter, she describes how she first became known as the "He Got Money" girl after a video she made with a camera phone went viral. That single device transformed her from a Philadelphia transplant grinding in Los Angeles into a recognizable face. The chapter "Girl Who's Never" (chapter 11) expands on this: she filmed a sketch with a friend at a movie theater, posted it to Instagram, and watched her follower count climb from about a thousand to tens of thousands. The phone was not just a recording tool; it was the distribution channel that carried her comedy beyond her own followers and into the wider meme economy.

The phone's role here is creative and liberating. Brunson notes that creating internet content taught her to be her own writer, producer, director, and editor. The lo-fi quality of the videos—shot covertly in public spaces, edited on a phone—became part of their charm. When rapper Meek Mill posted the "He Got Money" clip, Brunson felt validated by the power of accessible, low-production creativity. The phone democratized comedy for her: she did not need a studio or a budget, only an idea and a camera.

But the phone also introduced a cost. As her fame grew, she could no longer leave the house "looking a mess." Strangers shouted "he got money" at her on the street and asked her to perform on demand. She refused, establishing a boundary that would define her relationship to her own image: she performs when she wants, not when she is told to. The phone that made her famous also made her visible in ways she had not chosen.

The Phone as Work: Apple, Phone Sex, and the Grind

Before the phone made her famous, it was her day job. Brunson worked at the Apple Store in King of Prussia, saving a thousand dollars to move to Los Angeles, then transferred to a store in Century City. In chapter 9, she describes fixing electronics for wealthy customers who treated their devices—and their time—as extensions of their entitlement. One customer expected her dog's paw to unlock an iPad; another dropped an iPad on Brunson's foot and did not notice. The phone, in this context, is a symbol of the gap between her world and the world of the people she served. In Philadelphia, she understood that a customer's phone was often their lifeline. In Los Angeles, phones were toys for the rich.

The phone also appears as a tool of desperate survival. Broke and unable to find stable work, Brunson answered a Craigslist ad for a "voice massage director"—a phone-sex gig. She curled up in bed, answered her first call, and breathed "Hi, handsome" into the receiver. The call went badly; she hung up, furious with herself. Two weeks later, a check for four dollars arrived, which she mobile-deposited into an account that would soon be overdrawn. The phone here is stripped of glamour. It is not a portal to fame but a humiliating instrument of economic precarity. The same device that would later carry her comedy to millions could, in that moment, only earn her four dollars.

The Phone as Lifeline: Family, Grief, and Distance

The phone's most emotionally charged appearance comes in chapter 16, "Work. Life. Balance." While filming a sketch at BuzzFeed, Brunson's sister Jia called twice. Stepping out to call back, Brunson learned that their cousin Tyrese had been shot and killed. She returned to the shoot without telling anyone, then went home. Her father called, and his voice—calm, measured, logical—made her cry. The phone delivered the worst news of her life, and it also delivered the only comfort she could get from two thousand miles away.

What happens next is telling. Alone in her apartment, Brunson instinctively reached for her phone and stared at the home screen. It was, she writes, completely unhelpful. She dreaded any further calls, so she turned the phone off and threw it on the couch. Instead, she sat and focused on the dark screen of the television—something familiar, something whose mechanics she understood. The phone, which had just connected her to her family in a moment of crisis, became the thing she needed to escape. It could bring her the news, but it could not bring her home. It could carry her father's voice, but it could not carry his presence.

This moment crystallizes the phone's double-edged nature. It is the instrument of connection across distance, but distance is exactly what makes the connection painful. Brunson reflects on the helplessness of living in a different city from her family when bad things happen. The phone is the proof of that helplessness: it rings, and the world changes, and she is still alone in Los Angeles.

The Phone as Distraction: Twitter, Detox, and the Drawer

The phone is also the site of Brunson's most public struggles with her own voice. In chapter 15, "How to Mind Your Own Damn Business," she recounts tweeting criticism of Bill Cosby after his arrest in 2017. The tweet gained hundreds of retweets, was picked up by a gossip blog, and drew a flood of angry replies. She deleted it, then faced criticism for deleting it, and finally removed the Twitter app from her phone. The phone, which had once been her stage, became a source of harassment and second-guessing.

Brunson's response was a kind of digital detox. She returned to journaling to process her thoughts, and she offered readers a ten-step guide for minding one's own business: unfollow blog sites, delete the app, put the phone in a drawer. The drawer is a powerful image. The phone is not destroyed or thrown away; it is simply put out of reach. Brunson acknowledges being grateful for the platform while also tired of it. She expresses hope for reduced social media engagement in the future. The phone, in this chapter, is a habit she cannot fully quit but can learn to manage.

This tension runs through the whole book. The phone gave Brunson her career, her audience, and her creative identity. It also gave her anxiety, unwanted visibility, and a constant stream of noise. She does not resolve the contradiction; she lives inside it. The phone is both the tool of her self-expression and the thing she must periodically switch off.

The Phone's Shifting Meaning

Across the memoir, the phone's meaning shifts with Brunson's circumstances. In childhood, the family computer and later the iPhone opened a world of viral videos and creative possibility. In her early LA years, the phone was a job—something she fixed for other people and something she used, desperately, to earn four dollars. In her rise to fame, the phone was a camera and a stage. In grief, it was a lifeline that could not hold her. In frustration, it was a source of noise she had to silence.

What remains constant is the phone's role as a mediator. It stands between Brunson and her audience, between Brunson and her family, between Brunson and her own emotions. It is never neutral. Every time she picks it up, she is choosing a version of connection—to fame, to work, to home, or to escape. And every time she puts it down, she is choosing something else.

The phone is therefore not just a prop in the memoir; it is a measure of Brunson's evolving relationship to the internet, to her career, and to herself. It embodies the central tension of her life as a comedian who became famous for content she made on a device she could hold in one hand.

Study Questions

1. How does the phone function differently in Brunson's early career versus her later life?

In her early career, the phone is a tool of creation and possibility. It records her first viral videos, distributes her comedy, and connects her to an audience. In her later life, the phone becomes a source of anxiety and unwanted visibility. She faces harassment on Twitter, gets recognized in public, and eventually removes the app from her phone. The same device that launched her career becomes the thing she needs to escape.

2. What does the phone-sex episode reveal about the phone as a symbol?

The phone-sex gig strips the phone of its glamour. It is not a portal to fame but a humiliating instrument of economic precarity. Brunson earns four dollars for a call she cannot stomach, and she mobile-deposits the check into an overdrawn account. The episode shows that the phone is not inherently empowering; its meaning depends entirely on how it is used and what it is connected to.

3. How does the phone mediate grief in chapter 16?

The phone delivers the news of her cousin's death through a call from her sister, and it delivers comfort through a call from her father. But when Brunson is alone, she instinctively reaches for the phone and finds it unhelpful. She turns it off and throws it on the couch. The phone can carry voices across distance, but it cannot carry presence. It connects her to her family while reminding her how far away she is.

4. What does Brunson's "digital detox" advice reveal about the phone's double-edged nature?

Her ten-step guide—unfollow blog sites, delete the app, put the phone in a drawer—treats the phone as a habit that must be managed rather than a tool that can be abandoned. She is grateful for the platform but tired of it. The drawer is a compromise: the phone is not destroyed, just put out of reach. This reflects her broader relationship to the internet, which she cannot fully quit and does not want to.