A Novel of Comical Errors Wherein the Main Character Jago Rants Upon Various Subjects Culled From Modern-Day Experiences...
ME: Uh, hello?
SARAH: Jago! Are you okay?
ME: (completely NOT in the right mindframe to be talking to anyone) Guh? Meh. Mumble mumble.
S: There's fire trucks outside your apartment building!
ME: If there were a fire, I'm pretty sure I'd be aware of it. (Probably more like, "No, wha? Mumble fire mumble sleep.")
S: We're at Paul's apartment watching the fire trucks outside your place. We just wanted to make sure you're all right.
ME: I'm sure I'm not on fire. Are you sure it's my building?
S: We just want to see you, see that you're okay. Come on over.
ME: Um. I'm not in... not in... clothes. Yeah. No clothes. I'm in bed. Sleeping. It's not my place that's got fire trucks in front of it.
S: Well, get some clothes on. Come over. There's lots of us here.
ME: My apartment building's not on fire. What? It's 1:30 a.m. I'm sleeping, and I'm not dressed. I have no... what? No clothes. I'll be right over.
Just a warning to anyone who has the fortune of trying to talk to me after waking me up: Believe me, I'm not going to make any sense. None.
So I put on shorts and a t-shirt, head outside and walk down the block to where some friends are having drinks on their porch, watching a building that's not mine get aired out by firefighters.
PAUL: "Jago! I thought you lived in that building!"
ME: "No. Down the street. Not on fire. Woke me up."
S: "Sorry! I'm the sober one, and everyone else told me to call you. You look tired!"
So I hung out with some very happy (read: blitzed) people for a few hours before I got home. And now I must really go to bed.
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