December called.

We're three days into December now; according to the news, my calendar, the computer, Gmail, my phone and the receipt the nice lady at Publix gave me for the milk, Cheerios and two boxes of macaroni and cheese I bought with what little money I have left to my name.  Ah, college.

Point is, December gave me a call this morning, and she was pissed.  We didn't speak though, I was passed out on the couch so I didn't answer the phone.  Instead, December left me a pretty hateful message:

"[Laughs] You sound like a goddamn girl in your voicemail greeting.  Anyway, you're a son of a bitch, you know that?  I've been here three days and you haven't even called to say 'hi.'  You've spent so much time blogging in October and November that, what, you have nothing left for me?  You have no love for December?  This is bullshit and you know it.

I was talking with Monday, and we're really fucking sick of the way you've treated us with this bullshit excuse of a blog you've got here.  I read your last post.  You don't know who Rupert fucking Holmes is?  Are you fucking kidding me right now?!  He did Barbara Streisand's hair!  That guy's a legend!  You're just a dick with an Internet connection.

You know what else Monday told me?  He said he tried to off himself the other day.  Let me repeat that.  Monday.  Tried.  To.  Fucking.  Kill.  Himself.  He can't take all your hateful, anti-Monday propaganda anymore.  He's seen the Facebook page and stalked your Twitter.  He's seen what you've said about him, and he's fucking tired of it.  Frankly, so am I.

I'm hanging up now, because the more I waste time with your stupid ass, the closer I get to going totally and completely batshit insane.  Besides, I have to take Monday to the shrink, no thanks to you.  Don't ever try to contact us again.  I hope you die, you fucking prick."

I think she was drunk.  Whore.

I hope this post makes you happy, December.  I'm inside you, now.

Wow.  That was even too creepy for me.