Recorder is my life

In a rare show of sentience, my digital recorder decided to fly out of my pocket and land facedown on the asphalt as I was getting into a cab this morning.

As manong driver was backing out of the drive, I noticed my pants pocket empty of said digital recorder and proceeded to scream for him to stop.

When I checked outside the vehicle, my recorder was just a half-inch short of getting crushed by the cab’s front tire.

If it had been impaled and summarily executed by a trusty Goodyear and the force of a 3,500 pound vehicle, I would have probably cried. Bitched to the high heavens. Grieved for a week.

It’s not because I love my recorder as I would a puppy or a favorite sibling.

It’s because I have invested gigabytes of my time, work effort, voice and the valuable thoughts of others on this 3-inch slab of plastic.

Also, it’s got the only proof that I had a half-hour conversation with Jericho Rosales. (“This is Kim, right?” “Tin. But you can call me anything you want, you hot well-muscled surfer man.”)

Scary how a device becomes essential to living (and working. Which is a large part of making a living).

To me, anyway.

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