Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Poetic Justice?

I am still laughing about this.

I am strolling home from a dinner party tonight (it's freezing!) and finally make it to my apartment. The whole way home, I am contemplating whom to drunk dial (and this certainly doesn't exclude my mom, sister and of course, M.--he is always willing to pick up the phone or at least call me right back). About six different times I reach in my bag to get out my phone but finally decide that I MUST wait until I at least step foot in my apartment in order to call someone. That should give me enough time to think rationally. Or possibly sober enough not to call P., who is the best kisser of all of the guys I've kissed recently, and therefore the logical choice for a booty call on a frigid Wednesday night in December.

I step foot in my apartment, fumbling with my keys and promptly drop said phone, which shatters on the ground (or so it would appear). I am not kidding when I say I spend the next twenty minutes searching for the battery insert in my teeny, tiny vestibule. I run my foot in stripes along the floor. I get down on my hands and knees and pat the ground. I am about to burst into tears.

After what seems like hours, I finally come to terms with the fact that God is giving me a sign: I must not drunk dial. I MUST be strong and make it one my own. After feeling creepily disconnected from the rest of the universe (what if a serial killer decides to break into my apartment that very night?), I steel myself to pay the forty dollars to get a new battery at Verizon tomorrow, then finally unlock and enter the main door into my building. And like the Holy Grail, there it is: my fucking battery. Looking smug and electronic right at my feet. I feel like such a tool because I was going to write a note on a Post-It and stick it to the entry door, instructing anyone who found my "inexplicably lost" battery to leave it in front of #2A.

Lesson learned! Now, who to call??!

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