It’s your loss, really

You don’t call … you don’t write …
For all you knew, I could’ve been bound and gagged all day — and not in a good way, either. I could’ve been kidnapped. I could’ve suffered a heat stroke. I could’ve slipped and fallen in the tub and broken a hip. I could’ve tripped over an errant piece of kibble in the hallway and been lying face-down on the hardwood floor for hours, forced to gaze underneath one of the living room sofas at the balls of dust and clumps of dog hair (large enough to fashion into a Lhasa Apso) that taunted me because I could do nothing about them.
Something terrible could’ve happened to me. But did you call? No.
“Well, you wouldn’t’ve picked up the phone anyway,” you argue, “so what would’ve been the point!”
The point is that you didn’t even bother trying. And no, I will not accept the argument that you don’t have my phone number. Directory Assistance would had gladly scoured the Yellow Pages for “Jodi in Manhattan”.
The least you could’ve done was write. You could’ve followed Kim’s example and taken the time to send an email. Or Chad’s, and checked in with me via an instant message. I would’ve loved to have taken you all to Coney Island for a ride on the big ferris wheel, but I’m afraid it’s going to be just Kim, Chad, and I. It will be Kim and Chad who get the cotton candy and they who get to take home the Aerosmith and Budweiser mirrors I plan to win.
So tell me. What was so important today that you couldn’t write? Were you really that busy at work? What’s more important to you, anyway — meeting that deadline, or making sure I’m not lying dead somewhere?
Update (10:34 p.m.): I neglected to include Jack, who sent me email shortly after noon today. Chad … Kim … we have a fourth!