"send the report you did on spreadsheet to my email. the one you did for napa."
I wrinkled my nose. Spreadsheet? Napa? Had I done such a thing, and more importantly, did someone at my place of bidness have my cell phone number? Mother of God. I decided no. I was too incompetent to work any Microsoft program other than Paint, and even that was a struggle.
So I told this person that they had the wrong number and to please not remind me of either Napa or spreadsheets while I was trying to eat. But that didn't satisfy them it seems, because they continued to harass me.
"YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER ASSHAT," I entered furiously. There was silence. We resumed shoveling bacon into our faces. All was right with the world until the next morning at which point I was at my desk wishing I had not been born. This was amplified tenfold by my cellphone ringing from who else, the harasser Lumberg.
"Debbie!!" a woman yelled when I'd said 'hello.'
"No," I said slowly.
"Debbie? Is that you?"
"Noooo-wah," I repeated, "You have the wrong number."
There was an intensely tense silence when it became apparent that 1. I'd called this woman an asshat last night and we both knew that. 2. She'd probably just finished slashing Debbie's tires and fucking Debbie's husband for having supposedly called her an asshat.
"Oh. Well obviously Debbie changed her number. Nevermind."
Debbie must have changed her number back at the turn of the century when I acquired it. Perhaps at the decade mark, the harasser will commit that to memory.