Really, Bad Judgment About Which Nothing Can Be Done?
I pick up the phone for every danged telemarketer and other junk caller possible. I pick up calls from ex-girlfriends that just want to scream my ear off, I pick up calls from depressed friends that need someone to listen for an hour and a half when I’m on my way out the door for something important, I pick up calls from the city saying my residency permits have expired and there’s nothing I can do to avoid the inevitable fee that’s coming my way.
Of course, though, I sit on my couch and watch TV, letting voicemail snag every call about the great last-minute party going on in 15 minutes on an otherwise unoccupied Friday night, I let it ring when the lonely waitress for whom I’ve left my phone number on every receipt for six months calls, I let it ring when one relative calls to say another relative is dead.
Ring, ring. Really?
