I don’t even know how I did it, really. I was knitting and drinking a soda and reaching for something else with another of my tentacles and somehow I knocked the television remote onto the hardwood floor. This wasn’t the first time the remote had been knocked into the floor, but all too sadly, it shall be the last.
It’s gone now. Gone. And, much like Firefly, no prayers to the television gods will bring it back.
I did everything for it I could.
I removed its batteries. I put its batteries back in. I took them out again. I put them back in. You get the idea. I also took the liberty of clunking it ever so gently on the arm of the sofa, in hopes that whatever tiny mechanism had got loose might find its way home again mid-clunk. But, alas! No luck.
When all hope was lost, I made the call. I pray that none of you will ever have to phone a loved one and tell them you killed the remote. If you ever do, try and muster up a cry in your voice so that you sound properly repentant.
But, in all honesty, Michael is taking the news far better than I expected. He callously tossed the broken remote into the trash and he says he’s scoping out a new model. He is talking about the remote, isn’t he?