Well, it has happened again. Just as I was getting good and annoyed about the state of things in general and the decaying state of this skinbag I inhabit specifically, events have transpired that point out just how good this navel-gazing whinge whore has got it.
My friend D-, who's house I've been working on, has refused to call me back for a couple days. While it is not unusual for him to decline to participate in the simplest, simplest goddamn exchanges of information, two days is a long time considering I know he needs something from me. There is framing to be done at his house, and while he is a blazingly good electrician, watching the man do carpentry is something akin to watching a Great Dane pass the stapler he swallowed off your desk. It's physically awkward, it's embarrasing for everyone involved, and the results are really nothing you'd ever want to use. So why wasn't the bastard calling me? I have a schedule!
Turns out the drama queen is in the hospital.
For possible TB.
Which-can we bring this back around to me, please?-would be a real bummer if it turns out to be true.