South African Valentine's Day
The phone rang. And rang. And fucking rang some more. It was my roomate's family/friends/random people from South Africa, and I trudged, draging myself out of bed falling accross the disgusting mess of things on my floor, finally made it to the hall.
And it rang.
I walked up the hall.
And it rang.
I finally got to the little black phone, looking on in black humor, I was about to pick up and let them have it.
And it stopped ringing.
I stared at the phone stupidly for a few seconds, before shambling back off to my room, and there, on my desk, was a small box of chocolates saying, "Be My Valentine." If I hadn't been so pissed-off, it would've made me wonder about the existance of a god in that small 46-person dormitory at 7 in the morning.
And it rang.
I walked up the hall.
And it rang.
I finally got to the little black phone, looking on in black humor, I was about to pick up and let them have it.
And it stopped ringing.
I stared at the phone stupidly for a few seconds, before shambling back off to my room, and there, on my desk, was a small box of chocolates saying, "Be My Valentine." If I hadn't been so pissed-off, it would've made me wonder about the existance of a god in that small 46-person dormitory at 7 in the morning.