Yesterday afternoon, I was in a severe anti-social mode. I wasn't surprised, as it typically happens for this work-at-home freelance writer after an action-packed trip away. Ever since I returned on Sunday, I've retreated further and further into my home office, not wanting to talk to anyone. The only time I did venture out into public this week, to the grocery store, I felt like throttling completely innocent strangers for doing nothing except having the nerve to be in my vicinity.
Times like these, I decided, called for renting the third season of Dexter. "I'm in the perfect Dexter mood, because I feel like throttling complete strangers!" I happily announced to the move-rental guy. We agreed that it's best to let Dexter (a serial killer) do said strangling, and were pondering whether he takes special requests via list form (I kid, I kid), when my phone blooped, telling me I had a text. I sighed, because I really didn't want to talk to anyone.
It was my buddy Josh. "Want to get a drink tonight?"
"Sure, what time?" I typed ...