Phone Calls

I’m a cockroach. As low as I can be. A mugwump.

Bob’s mother keeps calling. I finally picked it up half an hour ago and sobbed that he had rolled his truck and died. Even that hasn’t stopped her calls. I should probably pick it up and tell her I was joking, but I just don’t know if I can.

I’m just lying around drinking, watching DVDs of LOST. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, though.

My blog is getting hits from all over the country. I can’t bring myself to read the comments. The whole world knows me for what I am. A slutty, pathetic alcoholic.

My aunt called from Portland. She wants me to come take care of her. I know it’s a pity call, but I may do it, regardless. Sell this damned house. Go take care of an old lady. Do something meaningful and worthy for a change. I’ve got to get out of here by Halloween. I can’t take all those horrible children asking for candy. All dressed up, with those masks. And laughing! I hope their teeth rot. I wonder if my aunt’s house smells like an old person.