You Can Ring My Bell

Well, actually you can't, not just yet, unless you know my cell phone number, which most people don't because I use it only for emergencies and to call people when I'm running late or need directions, but you should be able to ring my bell, that is, call me on my home phone, by the end of the day today, because Fucking Bell has promised to put a rush on reconnecting my phone, which was disconnected at 6:00 on Friday afternoon, after Fucking Bell's business office closed.

And how was your weekend, Gentle Reader?

I have been so flustered and upset all weekend because of the frustration of not knowing exactly what happened, but suspecting that no one else could possibly have done this to me but the X, that I nicked my neighbour's car pulling into my parking spot; a spot I've pulled into eight thousand times without incident.

Then I cried and fumed and rent my clothes and literally shook with frustration and anger that (1) he could, and (b) he would do such a thing to me; have power over me; be able to make me this angry and frustrated after all this time, and it's been the third worst weekend of my life and no, I'm not going to tell you about the other two, not right now.

The worst part was the feeling of powerlessness. Being alone, and scared, and angry and frustrated and as if that weren't enough, powerless to boot. And so I reverted to instinct and did the only thing I could think of to do, the only thing I wanted to do, and the only thing that stood a rat's chance of making me feel any better at all:

I called Jack.