count your blessings

Hey bitches. Well, I’m back. Where have I been? That’s neither important nor interesting, but, for the last week, I have been out of cell phone range. In fact, it wasn’t till last night around 7 that I was able to contact anyone outside of yelling range. So you can see why I was anxious to turn the ol’ Nokia and see how many exciting voice messages I would have. I had visions: Visions of crazy party calls saying “Andy, dude, get your ass over here, man, there’s like co-eds by the fistful.” or “Drew, my name is Tanya. You don’t know me, but I know you. Meet me soon. Passionately yours, Tanya. Also, I’m terribly attractive, and easy.“ and, in all honestly, I didn’t think I was aiming too high when I expected at least one, “Andy, I’ve got a bottle of Canadian whiskey with your name on it, let’s get drunk and sing Irish ditties.” But no. Not even fucking close, you bastards! I had three messages on my phone after a week, a week!, of not answering. The first message was from a good friend informing me he had Sunday morning off and was wondering if I was going to church and, if so, could he come with. “All right” I thought, “That message doesn’t exactly make me awesome, but, hell, I’ve got a couple left. Surely, one of them will be at least mildly debauched.” Message two: “Hey Andy, I haven’t talked in a while. I, uh, found the new Kanye West c.d. at a thrift store for 2 bucks so I bought it. I expect good things. Give me a call back sometime.” Unfortunately the last message was a wrong number, in which some terribly drunk Mexican was spanglishing his way through an explanation to Juliana about some kind of sexual transgression that had left their relationship “con los lobos.”

All in all then a week incommunicado taught me a couple of things. Number one, I don’t have any cool friends. Number two, I don’t really have any friends. Number three, I don’t even have any cool enemies. Number four, Jesus Maria needs to lay off the sauce. Number five, I’m back bitches!, and it’s fucking cold outside.