I forgot my voicemail number.

I forgot my voicemail number.

I do this on a regular basis, but I got tired of having a wrinkled slip of paper on my nightstand and decided to move that precious number somewhere more logical. Unfortunately Chaos Theory figures heavily in my sense of logic. I could come to a different “logical” conclusion depending upon the cleanliness of the house, the weather, or the amount of cat barf on the carpet.

Why do I need to write it down in the first place? Because I only need it once every few weeks. I thought about programming it into my phone, but then (I reasoned) I’d never remember the number. It all stems from an ongoing hate affair with the phone. I only have one because I need it to buzz people into the apartment. My friends, bless ’em, are aware of this quirk and communicate in other ways. Unless I’m in looooove and have to hear his voice for hours and hours, then a phone is a worthless hunk of plastic to me. I know, I know, my therapist and I are working on it.

In any case, after three wrong numbers trying from memory and 20 minutes going through piles of papers on various surfaces, I found the number. I retrieved a very important message from someone named Chris reminding me that he could save me interest on my credit cards.

I hate the phone.

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