You know what I love?

Besides Peppermint Patties and orange shoes and raspberry tarts?

A passive-aggressive drunk-dial from New Zealand.

I haven’t been drunk-dialed in ages. This is not to say that I myself have not been guilty of calling my entire phone list - including my dissertation advisor - with a drunken message of love. One thing I don’t do is drunk and passive-aggressive (past boyfriends may disagree). I prefer something along the lines of “howthefuckareyamyworldisapitofdespairwithoutyouloveyoutopieces! OkaybettergohavetopeemissyouuuuTHUMPouch.”

I was at work late last night, swearing under my breath and grinding my teeth into little nubbins when I got the call.

“It’s Kiwi.”
“Hi! Where are you?”
“Schlishscwhassass.”
“Sorry? What?”
“Huh?”
“What? I can’t hear you. You sound all fuzzy and weird.”
“I’m at the pub.”
“Ah. Right. It’s already Friday night there.”
“S’right.”
“So how are you?”
“Greatgoodfine. Sfhrseisjtf.”
“What?”
“Just keeping the bottle company.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Hrpmphfisshhh (muffled clanking noise). Just taking solace in the bottle...”
“And why is that?”
“Oh…you know…NOTHING.”
“What is it? Talk to me.”
“(Faraway voice) It’s nothing…NEVERMIND.”
“Okay, but I’ll see you in New York soon, right?”
“Yees.”
“So, we’ll talk about it then, right?”
“Yees.”
“Kiwi, are you mad at me?”
“Yees. No. Arghhh (strange strangling noise).”
“Can we talk about it when you come back? I can’t really understand you.”
“Yees. Bye (twenty second fumble with the phone followed by expletive).”

Good God Almighty. Moody bastard. What on earth did I do? Now I’m worried.