When I called him I was looking for a fight.
Hell, truth be told, I was ready for a fight. I wanted him to know how hurt I was, how burned I'd felt from him, how ignored I continued to feel as our relationship staggered on.
And the voicemail he had left me that accused me of being such a flake? And on my birthday nonetheless? That brought out the fighter in me.
If I wasn't five hundred miles from him, I would have marched up to Joe and punched him in the mouth.
I was braced and ready for a fight. A fallout. A big blowout of epic Joe-and-Krissy proportions where the remains are left scattered among our friends as we vented about the other behind their backs.
Instead, of the blowout of the decade, though, it was the Best. Conversation. Ever. In the history of all friend-to-friend dialogues.
The incident illustrated a really good point for me. I rush around so much and I get so caught up in to-do lists and daily tasks and tiny tragedies that I forget about the people that I care about. The friends that have made me who I am. The makeshift families that sometimes know me better than some of my real family members do.
I am the worst person ever with calling friends to play catch-up. I'll let voicemails slide. I'll merely glance at the emails sent my way by friends. When a memory flashes through my mind of a friend, I smile and shoot a quick prayer up to God to watch over them and have Him make sure that he or she is happy. But unless a friend hounds me with IMs or texts or voicemails I forget to return the call.
The incident with Joe serves as a good PSA to myself to stop doing that. Or my blood may boil a few more times due to angry messages my friends may be forced to leave. Or worse yet--they'll just stop calling. And that would be the biggest tragedy of all.
Ciao, dahling!