“We need to talk,” she says. “Call me.”
Is it that difficult to give me a little clue as to what we need to talk about? Are you dying? Are you going to have my baby? Was the comment to my nephew about your new boobs inappropriate? Do you want me to help you move for the fifth time in five years? Did you get fired again? Did the doctors finally figure out what was causing the rash on the bottom of your ass? Did you get in another fight with your downstairs neighbor about the dog pee that leaks through the floor? Are you thinking of buying something else you’ve seen on late night television? Are you wondering again if that African businessman, whom you never met, is really going to transfer five million dollars into your bank account? Is someone stalking you? Are you stalking someone? Do you want to stalk someone? Do you wish someone who was stalking you in the past would start stalking you again? How is it possible that I haven’t even talked to you and I’m already stressed out? Well you know what? Screw you. I’m not calling you back.