The Case of the Disappearing Digits
It all started with a seemingly innocent phone call. “Is Brenda there?” a chipper voice inquired. Now, my name is decidedly not Brenda. It never has been, never will be. I politely informed the caller of this fact, assuming it was a simple mistake. Little did I know, this was just the tip of the iceberg – a telephonic Titanic heading straight for my sanity.
The Wrong-Number Hotline
Over the next few weeks, the calls for Brenda increased exponentially. I was inundated with requests for everything from dentist appointments to overdue library books. Apparently, Brenda was a busy woman! I tried everything: explaining the situation, politely declining messages, even resorting to a very dramatic (and slightly embarrassing) “Brenda doesn’t live here!” Nothing worked.
The peak of this wrong-number pandemonium arrived in the form of a particularly persistent telemarketer. This individual, bless their heart, seemed utterly convinced that I was Brenda, despite my repeated denials. I imagined them with a headset on, eyes glued to a spreadsheet, a single bead of sweat trickling down their forehead as I shattered their reality for the tenth time that week. It was almost comical. Almost.
