Early yesterday morning, at about a half past twelve, I was drifting off to sleep when I was suddenly jolted awake by the arpeggio ringtone of my phone (note to self: change ringtone of phone). I sleepily reached for the receiver and glanced at the Caller I.D. display. The call was coming from the building’s intercom system downstairs. I knew for a fact that none of my friends would think of coming to my home uninvited–especially after midnight. Which led me to only one conclusion: It was someone I didn’t know.
Normally, I can forgive a wrong number. Seven digits aren’t so easy to punch through. But when you’re downstairs at the intercom which requires only three numbers to connect, and you still manage to fuck it up? Odds are, you’re either a drunken asshole or a thief. CLICK. Wrong-Number Night Owls suck.
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