You'd think that complete lunatics would stop calling me. These hair-roller wearing bitches keep calling faithfully, every morning, looking for some kind of meaning in their sad, sad life. Yet, even mold has it's place in the universe. These callers are like moldy bread, if you'll permit me to make an analogy. I keep suggesting that they kindly take a .44 and place the barrel between their weary eyes, and blow those damn hair rollers right off their head.
People never take good advice.
I might as well get used to it. I'm the fucking son of God, lady. I don't really care if I lose this job. I'm kind of far afield from my real skill base, anyway. I cannot believe this is happening.