My darlings, for years I've longed to play you again. What some people might think was annoying about you––the tape can fall apart, you might break up a song into two parts––never bothered me. You were part of my high school days, when I sat on my bed and played Cat Stevens' love songs over and over.
But I couldn't listen to you. No, not even you, Fleetwood Mac. I bade farewell to my eight-track tape player years ago. But, you my tapes, I refused to let you go. I was sure you would play again.
And now you are. When Favorite Young Man discovered this console at the Salvation Army Thrift Store, I jumped at the chance to add you to my bedroom because you . . .
have an eight-track tape player, seen here with the radio. And you work.
To put the icing on the cake, you have a turntable. Oh, how I adore you.
You appeared to have never been used. You came to me in perfect condition, complete with the paperwork that shows you were delivered to a man named Ronald in 1972.
And now you are mine, all mine.
According to your instruction book, the space at the top could be used for a small TV, which Ronald must not have ordered.
It's okay, Ronald. I don't mind. The rest of the console brings me such joy. Shall we listen to America next? Sister Golden Hair Surprise?
One more pleasant part of our happy home is Carol, so pretty in pink.
Infinities of love to you, Eight-Track Player and Console. I promise we'll never be parted again.
America, will you please sing us out? I've seen you in concert five times, so I think you owe me.