I should have known today would be jacked up when right off the bat I spilled hot coffee down my shirt and burned my right knocker. Maybe I can sue? Myself? If so, I’m not giving me anything. Though it looked like said knocker was a goner, the burn only ended up being about the size of a quarter. No biggie.
After hours of errand-running all over town, I returned home to five voicemails. As I’ve mentioned, no one ever calls on that number. I’m sure it can’t be Keith Hill since I took care of that yesterday. Yeah. Three of the five messges were the fucking operator trying to place a fucking person-to-person call. But the other two – ahh, yes, the other two featured the head jackass himself, Mr. Keith Hill. He left me a number to call him back, and boy did I want to talk to him, especially once I found out the reason he keeps calling is because…drum roll…are you ready…here it comes…he’s my COMMONLAW HUSBAND!
Finally, at the ripe old age of 36 (in a few days), I’m finally married. It’s a dream come true. And to such a success as the inimitable Keith Hill, man of the vintage person-to-person persuasion, man of the not owning a phone variety, man who, if he knew me, would realize how much he probably doesn’t want to fuck with me and certainly wouldn’t want to be married to me.
In a fit of extreme irritation bordering on really bad fucking anger, I gave old Keith a call. A woman answered the phone. I asked to speak to Keith Hill. She asked who I was, in a tone that suggested she was hoping to become the next Mrs. Keith Hill – maybe she will once he and I get divorced. I told her that I was the woman he was harrassing in Houston. She didn’t like that too much. He got on the phone, quiet as a little mouse, as if my energy had somehow seeped through the phone lines and made his nuts race each other to reach his stomach. I explained to him that he and I don’t know each other. In his little “man” voice he said, but Crystal Jackson lives there. I said, I’m Crystal Fucking Jackson and there are about four other Crystal Jacksons in the Houston phone book so maybe you’ve got the wrong fucking number. He said, oh…I said don’t fucking call me again. He said okay…
So far, the phone has not rung. This should be the last entry about the Keith Hill situation.
I say fuck too much.