(no subject)

Long ago I used to hang out on a newsgroup the address of which I cannot recall and the purpose of which I really can't explain, but if you wiki Kibo there might be an entry. It was full of quite hip cutting-edge technology people, but this was back in the days when a 28.8 modem was cutting-edge, and Netscape was the discerning geek's browser of choice. This is all by way of context to explain one of my favourite sig lines of all time, to wit:

I DON'T NEED A LIFE. I HAVE NETSCAPE.

I felt a deep affinity for the long-forgotten genius who coined that, today.

Work has quieted down somewhat, though I didn't get a lunch break (overtime YAY) and thus didn't get a chance to check my voicemail or make calls, I just ate a Clif bar at my desk. When I left the building this afternoon I had eighteen numbers on my missed-calls list. Not eighteen calls. Eighteen separate numbers including:

My best friend from undergrad, who (I called her back when I got home) recently broke up with her boyfriend of five years because he started beating her outside the bedroom (she's a sub, long story).
My mother
My stepfather
My mortgage lender
R
R's friend the Ratpacker, and how the hell did he even get my number and WHY?
My undergraduate advisor AND my graduate advisor
Bulletproof Temp, who forgot that, you know, I SIT AT A DESK WITH TWO REGULAR PHONES ALL DAY

As well as two guys who were calling for the last person to have my phone number, a hotel (wtf) and various and sundry others.

Jesus H Christ. Has nobody gotten the message that I hate telephones? And at least six of these people knew I can't answer my phone at work. GO AWAY, WORLD, IF YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO EMAIL ME I DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU.

This week is going to kill me! And it's only Wednesday!

On the plus side, when I came in R was having a hilarious telephone conversation himself:

"Call me tomorrow. Well, I get up early now. What? Listen, I don't know what chicks you're talking about, but I am in no way taking a break from the chicks, they're taking a break from me. Spread the word, I gotta get out there. No, man, no dudes. No! It doesn't matter if they look like chicks! Especially if they look like hot chicks!"

I realise that I have hidden under the blankets like, every day this week, but I can't help it that they're fluffy and comforting.

(no subject)

Oh my god you guys, I am dying.

I hope most of you remember the Hippie Chick, the one that R was dating when I moved in. I liked her, really, right up until the end. He broke up with her because she moved too fast for him, but he didn't just break up with her; he broke up with her over the phone, told her that it was fine for her to come get some stuff she'd left here, and then told me "I'm going out for the night. Just let her in and let her get her stuff?"

THREE HOURS OF FREE-VERSE BREAKUP LETTER POETRY LATER...she put the letter on his pillow, under a rice krispy treat, and finally left. Before that, however, she played that one Feist song nobody remembers now, because it was "their song".

R, as a bluesman, hates this song. And every time it comes on the radio, I remind him that it's his song.

So it came on tonight, and I made the requisite "They're playing your song!" remark, and he said, "Oh, that reminds me."

"Of what?" I asked.

"I got an email from her today, for the first time in like six months. She's living in Colorado now." He paused significantly. "In a commune."

That Girl is in the final throes of moving to Phoenix. This now makes two women in a row he has caused to LEAVE THE STATE. I'm thinking of warning his future conquests.

"What is it about you that when you break up with women they go totally fucking bonkers?" I asked.

"That's just the way I roll," he replied.