Me: Hello?
Person: ‘Sup?
Me: Nothing… Who is this?
Person: Who’s THIS?
Me: I think you have the wrong number? [Either this or in squeaky tones, "Emily?"]
Person: Where Lanell at?
Me: I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
Person: Quit playin’. Where Lanell?

And so on and so forth until I’m pleading and offering up my first born and such to get off the phone.

It’s better than when I was a young teenager and my number was one digit off from the Marriott’s. I’d have belligerent people call me and try to make reservations or want me to bring their bags in, and not understand that I was just a little thirteen year old and not a hotel chain. It hurt my self-esteem immensely! (But I also dyed my hair with Kool-Aid and had a crush on a guy who wore skirts, so my judgment was a little off.)

In related news, I just turned on my cell phone for the first time since Christmas. We’ll see how many days it takes before I hate it again.

“I will hook up with anyone. I have very low standards. I’m at a low point in my life.”

Classy.

(Does this really work? If so, I’m going to start going up to really attractive guys and telling them, “Wow, you’re really a depressing example of human existence. Lucky for you, I have low standards because I have no self-esteem. Want to hook up in the backseat of my car?”)