Angry Pants

The other night at two thirty in the morning I was awoken by a phone call. Someone forgot their key and couldn't get in. I don't like being roused from slumber. I like slumber. I like peaceful uninterupted slumber. Needless to say, I was pissed off.

While recounting the story to Leppy in the morning on our way to work, she laughed when I got to the part where I didn't even bother putting on pants to go open the door. Out the apartment door I went, clad in underwear and a tank top. Across the lobby I marched, flung open the door, and greeted him with scowl. A car ideled in the parking lot, two friends who'd dropped him off sat watching.

It's spread like wildfire through out group of friends. Tyson was so pissed she didn't even give a shit that she wasn't wearing pants. When I said this to Leppy, she said, "You didn't need pants, you had your angry pants on."

Then she told me a story from her childhood. When she used to have sleepovers, her Dad would come downstairs to shout at them to be quiet. He'd be so angry he wouldn't even put on a shirt. He wore his angry shirt.

When you hit that level of anger where you don't even care if you are missing articles of clothing, you know the person means business. And I meant business.
Though I did get a phone call from Bots the next day. She told me I looked *so* cute in my underwear.

Humph. I think my point was missed.