Creepy Doll

Lizzy's been back a few days. She brought some plans from Other Matt re: what he hopes is a correction on the formula for the fucky putty so we can find Weasel and try to open a better-controlled portal with fewer inverted humans and peoplesplosions. It's sweet he wants to see us again, but for my money, he just wants more Lupi's.
 
We had some coffee this morning before she went back to school and immediately after she got on the bus, the BBP Google Voice account told me I had a voicemail.
 
I cannot describe accurately, in word or deed, the degree to which I fucking detest voicemail. Text me if I don't answer. Honestly, I'd rather be paged, like it's the early 90s and I'm trying to convince everyone I'm a cool nerd.
 
I digress, but one more time: fuck voicemails. Moving on.
 
"Hey! This is Angie over on 50th. My 8-year-old has this doll--"
 
There's probably more to the voicemail but I hung up. I don't want any Chucky action around here. I'm not built for that. I can do ghosts and Bigfoot and Mothman and aliens and whatever but creepiness and kids is not my strong suit. I will shriek at you like Dean in That One Episode of Supernatural (you know the one).
 
I'll see if Bo's into it. Meanwhile, I'm gonna go check Lizzy's Squishmallows for EMF.
 
I'm also considering implementing a two-beer voicemail fee (3 if Natty--the Canadian dollar of beer currency). Just enough to help me get over the rage of it.

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