whoa turbo. slow down.

I'm phone phobic. Always have been, and most likely, always will be. I hate talking on the phone. I don't know what it is, but whenever the phone rings, my heart sinks and I break out into a cold sweat. And don't get me started on how I feel when I have actually make a phone call. Involuntary wetness. All I'm gonna say on that one.

And then came along the glorious invention of voicemail. Oh sweet voicemail, my savior. See, when I have to call someone, especially a superior at work, I hold my breath the entire time hoping that the voicemail saves me. The minute I hear that little click, I feel nothing but relief. Voicemail, my life preserver.

But see, that's where it gets you. As I recently discovered, voicemail is like a jellyfish. Soothing. Calming. Enchanting. Beautiful. So beautiful in fact, that you feel the need to touch it. To take a little piece of that serenity home with you.

BUT NO!!! Jellyfish sting! And it fricking hurts! And then you're stuck in the water screaming your head off, unsuccessfully swimming to shore because at this point you're like a three-legged dog, looking like an utter retard as the hot lifeguard looks on with a face of sheer horror and repulsion. In fact in the midst of the blinding pain, you can still read his lips. "Oh. My. God."

You're probably thinking, ok, she's lost it. Voicemail? Jellyfish? WTF? But no, voicemail really is the office jellyfish. Let me recount to you my close jellyfish encounter of the third kind.

So its 6:30pm and I'm at work getting ready to be a total geek and go see X2 for the second time with my co-workers. As I'm packing up and shootin' the shit with my pals, I hear the shrill ring of my office phone. Oh. Dear. God. According to caller ID, its one of my supervisors.

See, now if I had been alone in my office, I would have been a total chickenshit and let the phone ring and send him to voicemail. Like I really want a call at 6:30 while I'm heading out to see what the world looks like when the sun is actually out. Not to mention the fact that I'm phobic. Of the phone. But I repeat myself.

But I'm not alone. My buddy is here with me. And I have my pride. And I don't feel like hearing how much of a chickenshit I am for the rest of the night. So after the third ring and a shot of Jameson, I pick it up. Long story short, I have to call another supervisor to let him know that I can help him out with something.

Alright. Not too bad, right? I mean, its 6:30, so he's probably left the office by now, so I'm money. I'll just leave a voicemail for him. So there I am, basking in the comfort that is the invention of voicemail. I'm dialing, I'm waiting, I listening. In fact, believe it or not, I'm dancing, such is my joy. And while I'm shakin' my bon bon, I hear the tone. I open my mouth, and this is what comes out:

"Uh, hey, uh, Greg, I mean, Grant. Oops. Sorry about that. It must be late. I must be tired. Yeah, um the reason that I, uh, the reason that I, uh uh. Well, I'm calling you right now to tell you that, um. Ok. So Bill just called me and said that you might need some help with something. So if you want, you can get back to me, er call me, whenever and I can, I mean, we can meet up tomorrow, or whenever its you know, like, convenient or something, and you can fill me up, i mean, in, on the details. Ok? So yeah, just give me a call. My extension is 3227. Thanks. Night."

Diarrhea. Of the mouth. Understand that I work at a job that demands that I be an extremely articulate person. You know, a master of the English language. And everyone is twice my age so if you sound like a buffoon, you're screwed. People totally judge you on that shit.

So I hang up the phone, shaking my head, and my buddy's just looking at me and busts out laughing.

"Dude, What the fuck?!?"
"I know."
"You're an idiot."
"I'm well aware of this. But thanks for the report."

Do you see? Voicemail gave me false comfort. It totally lulled me to sleep and then pissed on my bed and shit in my shoes.

Stay clear from the jellyfish. They're pretty, but unless you want to spend the rest of your day pissing on your leg to make the pain go away, I suggest you tread lightly.

Ever have one of those days where your mind is racing with so many idiotic thoughts that you can't focus on the shit you actually need to get done? Well, this is my solution.

Witness, if you will, an extreme example of verbal bulimia. I'm going to force it all out here so that I can stay sane.

So sit back, check in, and observe the bloody train wreck that is, my mind.