Some Things Throw Off Your Whole Day

No, not just finding out that some local blogger has become your personal Harold Bloom, diagnosing your aesthetic flaws and making it impossible for you to write further without considering him. There's also the phone calls that go like this: "Hello?" "Oh... hey... B." "[Voice from the past], how the hell are you?!" "...yeah... it's been a while..." "Are you okay?" "..." "[Voice from the past]?" "...um..." "Are you high?" "Is your brother at work?" "Do you need to talk?" "Have him give me a call." "Whatever." "..." "Are you still there?" "Yeah." "Do you want to talk?" "..." "Then I'm hanging up. I'll have the Butcher call you later." Sweet Jesus. What the fuck? I know partially it's because we're moody jackasses, but the Butcher and I know some freaky, moody jackasses.