What deserves a re-post this Saturday, this day three of month one of millenial quirk number four.
Well, slap my ass and call me Sally, I came back to the abode after a good old fashioned Fuck I can't look at this computer screen any more respite, and erased a message about a prospect, a freelance gig in my attempt to turn up the decibels.
It is gone and I called two phoneco folks with an imploration. The first person suggested that I get the police involved.
Hmm, I said to myself, so I called in the fuzz. The fuzz's response? What are you fucking nuts, you want us to do what? Find out who called you two messages ago? Ever heard of a caller ID box.
Caller ID box, $20 of plastic and wires. Would have been just salvation item.
Moving along to relevant current music desire. Fleetwood Mac, Rumours. Silver Spring. I feel worse for Stevie than I do for myself. I lost one fucking phone message. The woman might call back, maybe not. But Stevie nearly lost her nose, lost her man, and I imagine her alone in her canyon home with some pals and her puffy ass resting on her laurels she's got strewn about her home, festooned with witchy organza and stinky-stanky candles.
Love of Relevance.