This is what we call 'RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION'.

It is... annoying... to be woken out of a deep slumber by a phone call.

It is more annoying to be woken up by a phone call you do not wish to take, because it's from someone you do not particularly like, and you know she will want you to do something for her.

And when you pick up the phone, and say 'Hello' but cannot make out a response, you might as well hang up.

And when she calls back, you can just hit the little hang-up button on the top of the phone, sending her straight to voice mail, and yourself straight to bed.

Okay, you close your eyes and the phone rings again... clearly she didn't get the point yet. A little patience will solve that, just let the phone ring. Don't pick up. Not even when she calls the fourth time.

Or the fifth.

Oh, man, if the phone were any closer to the nice, inviting bed it would have been turned off by now. But by the sixth time she calls, you have to start taking interest in it... how sick is this woman? Who calls someone six times?

... make that seven.

Alright! Extended silence! She got the GOD DAMMIT THE PHONE'S RINGING AGAIN.

"WHAT? What do you WANT?" you yell.

She puts on a pathetic and exhausted air for you. "Can you work the front desk for me, I'm too tired."

Her shift starts in five minutes. It would have been ten when she first called you. Worth noting too: the front desk is so simple it barely constitutes as a job. You go there, you sit for two hours. The hardest bit, and frankly, the only bit, is getting there on time. For her, this would mean she'd have to walk the equivalent of a block and a half, whereupon she would have to do nothing. Very exhausting, of course. The poor thing.

"NO."

"Well, then, could you ask Emma if she'll cover for me?"

What the hell is wrong with this... this being? you think. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you say.

"I only got a couple hours' sleep..." ladled liberally with pathos, of course. See, you will later discover that she was hot tubbing with friends until seven in the morning. Now, you were up just as late, but the difference is, you were in bed in time to be awake by 3, which is when you had to work. It's eleven now, and you are not pleased to be awake. Especially by someone who can't take an ounce of responsibility.

Fine. Whatever. You know, seven bucks an hour is seven bucks an hour, so why the hell not. "I'll take your damn shift," you say, tersely, of course, "but you didn't need to call me Eight. Fucking. Times."

"Click," you add. It's a shame cell phones don't go to dial tone when they hang up, as that would have been slightly more dramatic. A moment later, though, you realize that you don't want to be misinterpreted on this, so you call her right back. "Just to make myself clear: you woke me up and I'm pissed. Never, ever call someone eight fucking times in a row!"

She says she's sorry. But you have to wonder, is she actually sorry, or is she just saying that because you got mad? Does she even have the capacity to feel the emotions she's claiming, or is she a manipulative little bitch, dead inside? The latter seems more likely.

Her name is Lauren Murray. She clings, she needs, she follows, she invites herself, she shows up unexpectedly and doesn't realize why the party stops when she gets there. She's got the mind of a beauty queen, the heart of a politician, and the body of a nun. She is, basically, one great big lack of redeeming features. She's never worked a day in her life. She has no inkling of responsibility. I will be the first to admit that I get a lot of advantages that my friends may not; Father's a fancy lawyer-man. We've got money. But Lauren... she has life handed to her on a silver platter, and she complains that the platter's not shiny enough. If this were the first instance of her expecting others to guide her through life, I would give her a little more slack. But, like the hangman, one can't give a person too much slack, or they'll never learn their lesson.

I hate Lauren Murray. Nobody likes her, but my camel has been broken. This, ladies and gentlemen, friends and family and strangers alike, this is the year of 'not the doormat'. I already incited a boycott of the Players, they don't have enough people to actually put on a play anymore. It will be a trifle to return to Lauren the mp3 player she gave to me because she got an iPod and didn't need it anymore (it wasn't a gift, it was scavenging), explain to her that she is a socially retarded failure as an excuse for a human being, and insist that she never speak to me again. At least, not until she grows the hell up, because by all accounts, she's two years old.

...

This is what it feels like to be mad as hell and absolutely in the right? It's powerful. Godlike. I feel like Zeus. Today, I could overthrow the Titans singlehandedly, and set myself up as king of the gods. It might just be a strange mixture of adrenaline, caffeine, and sleep deprivation, but I swear there's lighting crackling between my fingers.