Seventeen missed calls. If I hadn't felt so miserable I would have thought myself to be as popular as George Clooney. Three calls from Sean, five from Laura and nine from Lavender and I still felt down in the dumps. I should have been flattered that Lavender had cared enough to call me that many times, but the sight of Sean's unmade bed had brought me back to reality with a thud.
Turning off the ringer of my cellphone and throwing it on the couch, I crashed on my own bed. Switching on the television, I flipped through the channels without really looking at the flickering screen. Losing interest in that activity, I picked up a paperback from my bedside table and started turning the pages in a frenzy before I put it back on the table.
"Bah, I have absolutely nothing to do and I just can't get Lav out of my head. What are you doing to me, Lav? What in hell are you doing to me?" Muttering to myself, I shook my head at my own craziness and collapsed back on the bed. Turning my head into the pillow I felt my throat tighten and tears prickle at the back of my eyes.
Refusing to behave like an overgrown baby, I got up from the bed and stomped into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, I picked up two bottles of Carlsberg and a bowl of mint dip. Grabbing a packet of chips from the shelf, I walked into the bedroom. Setting down everything on the floor in front of the television, I picked up the remote control from the bed and sat myself down.
I was finally ready for a party. My own pity party.