Envision this, if You will.
Intrepid Yours Truly, ever minding her own business, was wending toward the blinking answering machine attached to the landline.
Twenty-three messages awaited.
Messages one through twenty-two, to be quite Perfectly full of exactitude, chronicled a large breech of communication between a man and a woman.
The man, who we shall call Jim, is dialing the woman, who, apparently is snubbing or ignoring his telephonic advances.
Messages one through three say, emphatically, This is Jim, Terry.
Message four, in a quieter and contrite fashion, says I am so sorry JUDY, I did not realize that you had changed your name.
Messages five through twenty-two are attempts at reaching newly-named Judy with declarations of I am right here, Judy.
These calls clocked in at an impressive call per two minutes - or less.
Terry/Judy, from the sounds of it, was on occasion egging on the exasperated and obsessed Jim.
Yours Truly truly enjoys caller i.d. on her cellie.
However, the landline is old school, sans caller i.d.
As call number twenty-three was an actual call to YT there was no way to *69 the desperate Jim to ensure him that he was dialing YT and not Terry/Judy.
There was a momentary mental image of a distraught Jim doing something operatic in his miscommunication quagmire.

Onwards to points beyond to further dispel and deliver good pixel vibes.

Good old school pixel Love.