...but apparently Friday was Angry Young Man Day. A normal work day will have me at the hospital once, maybe twice (as an employee... it's pretty rare that I end up as a patient). Friday there were four patients lined up all at once, and every one of them was a male between the ages of 16-24, all varying degrees of angry, hostile, antisocial and self-righteous.

Which is less attractive than one might think. I bet THEY would be shocked to know how little the aggressive frontin' (see? I just can't pull that off.) and rebel-with-a-heart-of-angst persona encourages others, particularly women, to slip them a phone number. Unless maybe it's a phone number to a mental health clinic.

It would have been nice to know this ahead of time, that it was going to be Angry Young Man Day. But my father and Willem decided on Thursday that I'm not allowed into the Guys Union. This is not especially heartbreaking for me. But their grounds are that when I threw a piece of pork backwards, underhand, and it bounced off the dishwasher and landed in the cat's food dish, I wasn't allowed to nod smugly because I hadn't called the bank yet.

What-ever.

Willem was so passionate about this that he has been polling his other Guy friends to make sure, and many of them agree, vehemently, that if I didn't call the bank, it didn't count. You simply can't imagine how much sleep I've lost over this.