Sleeping on the couch gives me a crick in the neck.

Ah, bugger, the phone rings . . . I get up to answer it.


"Hi, is your mother home?"

Shit. Must be a telemarketer. They always seem to think I'm five years old. "What's that?"


"Uh, HI. . . ."

"How are you today?"


"Do you get the Gainesville Sun?"

"Uh, no. . . . " Thinking fast, not wanting to hear the spiel about buying the local newspaper because I would never read it. "I get my news at work. I work at a bookstore and I read it there--"

"Oh, okay. . . . "

"And other times I get my news online. Is that all the call's about?"

No answer. I realize she has hung up on me sometime in the last sentence.

Damn it! You may have been only interested in talking to me to sell me stuff, but you should at least be nice enough to tell me 'bye, and have enough freakin' consideration not to hang up on people, God knows people must do it enough to you. I was nice to you even though you woke me from my nap.

Fuck this.

Thanks anyway, though. . . .