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Good Deed, Punished. Gotcha.
Let’s talk about how nice I am.

I am so nice that when out with Beaker and my friend Jen last night, when we were saying goodbye out by the car and the drunk girl with the sandpaper voice and the inexplicable beehive staggered over to my car and asked to borrow my cell phone because she was stranded, I let her.

We’ve all been there. Well, not exactly there, because that was some cuh-razy hair. By “there,” I mean in a tight spot. A bad situation where you have to swallow your pride and approach a stranger for help. There.

So my nice self handed over my cell phone, and then chose to re-enter the bar for one last pee. (Me! In a bar! On a Wednesday night! It’s been a while, huh? Remember when this journal used to be filled with Thursday-morning tales of drunken Wednesday night adventures with Shawn, like, every week? Those were the days. Except not.)

The crazy drunk beehive girl seemed to be taking her sweet time rasping into the phone, but I am really, really nice, remember? Also, I have to pee a lot. So I begged Beaker to please watch her and my phone while I went inside and had a nice pee. Fine.

When I got back out, they were across the parking lot. Beaker had to follow her, because she kept staggering away with my phone. Beaker is nice, too. Once he spotted us, he grabbed the phone and kind of ran back over, wild-eyed, begging us to go because she was hanging on his handsome arms, and ew. Just ew. Fine with me. I buckled my nice self into the car and we were off.

Beaker said she called her boyfriend, and he kept calling back, but she wouldn’t answer and wouldn’t let him answer and it was very confusing.

And this is how my act of kindness resulted in my getting 700 voice mails, all night long. From 1 a.m. to 7:30 a.m. to 20 minutes ago.

Angry voicemails. Belligerent voicemails.

From crazy drunk beehive girl’s boyfriend.

Who just got out of jail.


Why, oh why, am I so nice? Is it because I went to high school in Ohio? DAMN YOU, GENTLE MIDWESTERN SOCIAL VALUES!

In a bizarre twist, after all the violent belligerent voicemails, the latest was quite friendly. My phone says “Jamie” before you get to the voicemail, so the murderer said, in a really chummy tone:

“Hey, Jamie! Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but *mumble mumble* and I don’t know if *mumble* is there or still with you, but could you please have her call me if she is? I can’t find her, mumble, mumble*. It’s the least you can do.”

The whole message is sort of funny and bizarre, but it’s that last line that gets me.

See, I owe the murderer a favor! It’s the LEAST I can DO! Perhaps, I should consider doing something NICE for someone! A stranger! For a change!

Look, murderer. Nothing against murderers, because I’m sure you are a lovely person and a prince among men and all the other criminals took a vote and granted you the Inmate Congeniality Award. The last time I did something nice for someone, A MURDERER STARTED STALKING MY PRETTY NEW CELL PHONE.

To add another dramatic twist to this sordid tale, I actually sat here, and considered giving the murderer a little ring. Partly because I AM SO NICE (fuck you, Midwest!) and mostly so that my phone would stop ringing and partly so that I don’t get murdered later.

But the murderer’s phone number is showing up as “No Number.”

You know what the least YOU could do would be, murderer?

Leave a number.

I wonder where crazy drunk beehive girl is now?

Wait, no I don’t.

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