Newsy is one of my oldest friends; I have known her for over half my life. She remembers when I thought it was funny to leave a stick of chewing gum in my friends' birth control pill packs. She remembers when I liked to wander off into the woods with boys, when one beer would render me senseless, when I thought snow drifts and church bells were romantic. She remembers when I was not a droid.
Today, (or was it yesterday?) Newsy left me the following voice mail:
"You know, most people would think, you know, that I am insane. Because most people when they call another person think they will either get a call back or you know they will stop calling because they take it personally. GOOD THING I DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY. I really shouldn't keep doing the same thing and expecting some other result because that makes me crazy. But anyway I know you'll call me back some day. Whenever. I will be waiting anxiously for your call. It has been way too long. Oh and in case you can't tell, this is Newsy. Bye."
You know what? I almost never call her back because I know if I do I will discuss how badly I am fucking up my life, and gosh, you know, lately, I don't have the bandwidth. See recent entry, Purple Hands, Any Feet.
But when I get the bandwidth, I do call her and we talk about how much I suck at life and she encourages me. And then she goes back to running the world, and I go back to checking myself for suspicious moles. And life goes on.
Hi Newsy. I'll try to clear some bandwidth for you this weekend. Pinky swear. Or, you can just call me next week and we'll just repeat the process. Either way.