1.) I’ve always wanted a voice recorder.
2.) I got a voice-recorder for Christmas.
3.) I forgot about it for a while.
4.) The beast got bored.
5.) I found it and started using it to record little notes to myself.
6.) I got bored with notes to myself that I’ll never listen to again and started recording myself singing ridiculously in a country twang, or a high falsetto, or worse in my actual singing voice.
7.) The beast lost the voice recorder.
8.) Now I've got myself a paranoid little adventure. It’s like the time in college where I lost a list of things that I despised about my roommate somewhere in the dorm room. I’m looking for it just hard enough that no one will ask what I’m looking for, which isn’t very effective because I’m sure it’s in something or under something or between the cushions of the couch. I wish it was destroyed, crushed under a car and frozen in the driveway or accidentally taken out with the trash. But it isn’t. It will turn up. And someone will hit play, maybe accidentally and they will hear my voice come through, quietly at first until they figure out how to turn up the volume and I will be passionately singing Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like A Bird.”