Bent Words

Bent Words

March 07, 2009

Ahhhh, yes… bombard my phone with threatening calls in the wee hours of the night hoping to ascertain the meaning of my forgotten but apparently uber-inappropriate nature.

FANtastic considering my early Saturday morning meeting.

But hey! I’ll throw a thumbs up at ya for hitting a high score on the Lunachick Scale.

Brav-fucking-O.

I must admit, the first call caught me completely off guard as I was still registering the whole ‘wheelie over a dessert dune against a sky full of fire’ dream and then I vaguely recalled the number – lotsa 3s – and in all of my confusion as to the hour and the whole, “Who would call this late unless it were important?” I picked up the phone only to be met with pure disdain and a female voice rattling questions and a demand of “stop calling my brother…”

Brother? Who is this? My mind reeled and I sort of got it and, wait – dude has a sister?

I had no real idea what was going on so I just hung up.

Naturally, a bothersome state of wakefulness peeled away at my brain and there I was, being followed up with. Persistently. I sat up and stared at my phone. Seriously?

Shouldn’t I just answer? Should I just explain that I have no idea what you’re talking about and get it over with? I’m sure you’re right that I’ve committed some offense in the past ninety days considering you’re going to all this Goddamned trouble but… seriously?

I doubt the effect would make it across the lines in a coherent manner if I were to attempt to explain myself but, then again, for posterity’s sake, shouldn’t I try?

Nah, she’s just being insecure. Or drunk.

Or worse, both.

But really. What can I say? I honestly do not recall having called him and, if I did, I know it was in relation to the former situation related above. I was schluckered. Somehow, the obvious lines drawn between me just wondering if he’s thriving after battling a life-threatening illness and that of me actually inquiring were gently skewed into a fumbling mass of fingers and phone amidst an alcoholic daze.

Oops.

What have I to apologize for? He can tell me when he’s having the transplant, no worries, but I can’t ask about it later? He dropped a couple dozen friends in the past three years and they wonder all the time as they pass through every month but no one’s allowed to inquire? Come on.

Whatever dude. Calm the beast over there. If I called you or sent you a stupid text at 3 in the AM I can pretty much guarantee that I wasn’t trying to lure you into a dark cave to retain you as my personal pet forever and always – I was just checking on your pulse. I apparently decimated all evidence of contact in a shameful twitch of reality and made it so vastly important as to forget all about it the next day.

Still, it’s kinda sad that you couldn’t come up with a more charming way of relating your thoughts. Ya know, instead of having Little Miss Insecurity barking “bitch” fervently in the background like a high school cheerleader, you could have tried just telling me yourself. Of course, telling her that I did the drunk text dance probably wouldn’t have hurt either.

So, yeah, pretty sure that I’m not the one who deserves this profound role in your daytime drama so please seek out your insanity high elsewhere.

Trust me, Honey, he is ALL yours…

Sweet Dreams

Written at 4:51 p.m.