Stop Calling Me

This week, my boss has called me at home, knowing full well that I'm drugged up, iced down, and down four molars.

Every damn afternoon.

And it's not "Hope you're feeling better," either. It's work stuff. And I'm sick of it. I'm on fucking vacation. I know that taking a week off to relearn how to eat solid foods doesn't sound like much of a vacation, but this is how I have chosen to spend my time and I don't fucking want people at work interrupting it.

And it's not like I can do anything while I'm down, either. So these phone calls aren't accomplishing anything other than reassuring my boss of some minor detail of a plan he already knows.

I'm not calling him back anymore. What do I have to say? "Hmm. You say you don't know where the phone line is supposed to plug into the new VPN? Well, I'm bleeding from the mouth. Would me bleeding from the mouth help at all?"

"It wouldn't?"

"Then fucking leave me alone!"