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  • I first learned of you in a Montgomery Ward catalog. The year was 1984. I was ten. I'll never forget the bulbous red of your eyes, how your mouth looked like an echocardiogram. I love the dual tape deck in your chest. I was excited by your accessories: your accompanying tray and willingness to serve. I was awestruck by your movements, the way you glided over all surfaces: carpet, linoleum, hardwood. In the space where your hands might be, black rounded pinchers gripped objects, carried Dr. Pepper.

    Your cylindrical frame -- was stocky, solid, and sure. Your voice, so resonant, and clear. I spoke through your remote control and heard myself anew. Filtered, mechanized, but pure. I could say truths through your speaker system that from my own lips simply fell flat, unheard. Omnibot, yours was my first voice. I see myself through your eyes, hear myself through your voice, receive your generosity. Your infectious spinning and dancing while playing tape deck music that first month of January 1985 is something I will never forget. We spun, half spun, then we collapsed back to our respective home bases. You recharged your batteries, my hand touching your left wheel.

    Our affection for each other is rare like a programming malfunction, but with much better results. Like many relationships, by July, 1985, our affections waned, our dancing subsided, you stopped bringing me snacks and sugary beverages. You hunched lifeless on your home base while my eyes wandered to a Tyco US 1 Electric trucking and hauling set that found a place in my heart on my 11th birthday in July of that same year.
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