Feb 2020 while on vacation in the Philippines.
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And it would have killed you to drop by to visit me at my place for a measly half hour? Mister Bigshot can afford to globetrot, does he remember his old pal Randall? I should have a massive coronary and die in these four walls and no one would notice. A broken finger maybe, sure, that’s what keeps Alexander Graham Shuhak from dialing my number, the same one I’ve had for three decades. Don’t worry about me, I’ll pass out in my morning gruel one fine day, heaven forbid the bills are all paid, because a whole month would go by before my petrified and putrid rotting corpse gets carried out by a minimum-wage collecting team of complete strangers from the county morgue. They’ll track mud on my carpets, knock a lamp over with their clumsy elbows, maybe even smoke cigarettes in my house, a house that hasn’t seen nico smoke since the day I moved in, and why shouldn’t they? The old guy no one cares about when they come all the way to San Diego is dead. Better they rifle through the tilde vault than call Shuhak, he‘ll just ask them, “Randall who?” Oy vey.