Velouria (velouria) wrote,

Twenty types of not cool.

I came home from a long day at the office and noticed my answering machine blinking at me. "Somebody loves me!" I exclaimed, knowing that was a inaccurate. Usually it's a long winded Arnold Schwarzenegger explaining in immaculate albeit Austrian detail his plans to "clean up Sacramento" if I would only vote for him.

No such love or luck this time. To my shock, it was "a collect call inmate at Corcoran State Prison."


I stood clutching my Little Debbie Snack cakes in terror. Roland? Wha? Have they found me? Was that liquor-filled chocolate rumball guy? Was it guy who wanted pink velour bath robe? Cause neither of them got rumballs nor pink velour. YOU CAN'T HAVE RUMBALLS. Hell, I can't have rumballs. Build a bridge and get over it, Roland.

I called some family members in a panic to let them know I would be being murdered by this Roland quite shortly. They're telling me to chillacquer, that it was just the wrong number. But Corcoran is approximately a million miles away. This man used his precious phone priviliges to call someone in the other half of the state who just happened to used to have my number? Holy crap, I hope so.
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