#donttext

All I need is a hand full of good friends that I can call on the phone during the week to yell insults at and hang up.  I don’t need therapists or sponsors or a parole officer to check in on me.  I just need to reach out and curse at someone now and gain.  Preferably someone willing to scream back.  Otherwise, it’s no fun.

This is more of a general sanity check.  Make sure the lawless game board of life isn’t falling apart on their end or mine.  Honesty is the only obligation, but feel free to take creative license with that.  Tell me if my skin is turning orange with jaundice, or if my words are slurring with the sloppy melody of a stroke victim.  My friends don’t have to be doctors.  This relationship involves telling me that I have an exposed booger — on a slightly grander scale, perhaps.  

Two minutes maximum time limit and then the phone cuts off because one of us still enjoys the childish gag of hanging up suddenly without explanation.  “Hold on I’m on the highway, about to hit an embankment at 79 miles an hour…”  Then bang my phone off the kitchen counter and hang up.  

Is that too much to ask for?  I’m not looking for the scoop.  If you’re going to tell me about that fucking kid, keep it short.  I’ll drop that kid and my phone into the deep end, everyone loses. Tell me the cold hard truth.  Give me some spit and vitriol, explain in detail the way you’d murder your ex-wife with a chainsaw, and then get on with your life.  

It’s not a short attention span thing.  It’s a value thing.  You’ve got shit to do.  I’ve got shit to do.  If you’re washing your cats in the sink, or jerking off, don’t answer the phone.  I’ll shout slurs at your voicemail machine instead.

I called because I wanted to know how many aspirin to eat to cure diarrhea, or because I was bored, or insecure, or because I was thinking about you. Don’t make more complicated than it needs to be.  Don’t torture me with an ear beating.  I’m not good at goodbyes.  

Sorry for the things I did when Mercury was in retrograde.