Things I didn’t say today. Take Three.

“You called me to see how I’m doing? Yeah, right. How many of my kidneys do you really want?”
“Any sentence you let me complete would be nice…”
“You are a spoiled little prick.”
“Next time, be sure to tell the same story the exact same way. Twentieth time’s a charm, and I hate change.”
“Thanks for asking.” And? “My day was a little tiring.”

Those last two didn’t get said because there was nary a breath taken that would have allowed it.

I didn’t really tell you about last weekend because, really, do you care? Just in case, you should know that my ISP decided to hire a troll to eat all its equipment the very day that my little cough became full-fledged, fever-bearing bronchitis. Said ISP stayed down until a full day after I went back to work, which meant that I sat on my sofa and watched endless MASH and SCRUBS reruns all weekend while chain-popping Tylenol and Robitussin. The fever topped out at 102.5, mainly because of said Tylenol, but it was persistent – if I let the drugs get out of my system, like, say, while SLEEPING, it hurried back in and kicked my arse for trying to shake it. So. That was the weekend that was. I choose to call my planned day off a “provision” rather than see the sickness as a punishment. My sanity likes it better that way, and Chick doesn’t get points for being right.

In other news… I have asked this question before, but it begs asking again after today: what is it about men that makes them completely deaf to my voice? I had a call today that ended with, “Well, Bob just got here, so…” I said, “Bob who?” “…I’d better go see to him…” “Bob who?” “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon…bye…” at which point I yelled, “BOB WHOOO??” and got silence.  Finally, he answered. Three tries and a scream to be heard… criminy.

Later in the evening, I was with “boyus interruptus,” who cannot for the life of him let me finish a sentence. I stopped counting the times he let me say 3 words or less before taking over again. *Sigh* That’s what I get when I am nice. If I called either of them on their rudeness, I would be considered the rude one. They’d think I was being crabby or hormonal. I KNOW I told you about the guy who told me I should be grateful somebody wants to spend time with me, but if I didn’t, now I have. I think I earned back a few lost crown jewels for not smacking him for that one. He wasn’t even trying to be funny, which made it all the more mean. I got him back by reminding him on his birthday that he can’t hold his liquor.

I guess I’m like the dentist: I’m really good for people, if they are honest with themselves, but I get a bad rap just for being. I am feared and dreaded and rumored to bring pain, but many more people can say I’ve helped them or made them laugh than hurt them.

Still? Here I sit, blogging to you, my faithful followers, instead of curling up with somebody. Of course, I believe we’ve already ruled out the possibility of any good ones being left whose taste is bad enough they would look my way, so I can’t truly say I’m missing anything. Danged things can’t hear anyway.

I have a fresh pack of batteries and unwatched MacGyver videos. Bring it, night. Bring it like yer momma taughtcha.

Time to get this party started.