Telephone Troubles

I hate talking on the phone. You know how most people fear public speaking more than death? I’d rather die than talk on the phone. I’ve only talked to a handful of people for longer than a few minutes. And, yes, they were all women I was interested in (and, no, they weren’t interested in me.). So, growing up, I’d avoid picking up the phone whenever possible. But sometimes you’re the only one home and you just gotta because it could be that cute chick you were interested in who you gave your number to a few months back and she’s finally calling because we all know the rules, you wait a few weeks before getting back to a guy so you don’t feel desperate (At least, that’s what I was told.).

Me: Hello?
Her: Who is this?!
Me: Felipe. Who is speaking?
Her: I’m looking for my daughter.
Me: And you thought she would be at my house? You clearly don’t know me.
Her: What are you doing in her house?!
Me: I think you dialed the wrong number.
Her: No, I dialed 2282!
Me: You misdialed. This is 2283, not 2282.
Her: Yeah, that’s the number of my daughter. 2282. So, what are you doing in her house?
Me: I’m not in her house. You dialed 2283, not 2282.
Her: What did you do to my daughter?
Me: I’m not in your daughter’s house. You. Have. The. Wrong. Number.
Her: I’m going to hang up now and call again. If you pick up I’m calling the police.
Me: Go for it.


And, with that, I hung up. I didn’t hear back from her again and I hope she gets help for that stupidity she’s suffering from. Though, I secretly kind of hope that she dialed the wrong number again and called the cops. Can you imagine the police on your house because they got the wrong number? You’d be relaxing at home, watching TV when the cops break into the house, guns-a-blazing and you end up with a bullet in your butt all because your retarded relative has trouble with telephones.

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