Voicemail Quotes

But when the other end of the line picked up, it was his voicemail that answered, not the man himself. "I know how devastated you must be to miss me," his cheery voice said, "but leave a message, and I'll try to ease your agony as soon as possible.

I asked,”Are you going to pick up next time I call you?” ”I did this time didn’t I?” “Say yes.” “Yes. Conditionally yes.”…... …”What conditions.?” “Sometimes you do things like call me forty times a day and leave obscene voicemails and that’s why I don’t pick up.” “Ridiculous. That doesn’t sound like me. I’d never call an even number of times.

Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.” Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You” by the Bee Gees. Voicemail #3: “I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone! I find all these old expressions unnecessarily violent. Like, ring around the rosy. That’s about the plague, did you know? Of course you did. The plague is, like, your older cousin. Hey, does Sam talk to you? He says jack shit to me. God, I’m bored. Call me.” Voicemail #4: “Hotel California” by the Eagles, in its entirety, with every instance of the word California replaced with Minnesota. Voicemail #5: “Hi, this is Cole St. Clair. Want to know two true things? One, you’re never picking up this phone. Two, I’m never going to stop leaving long messages. It’s like therapy. Gotta talk to someone. Hey, you know what I figured out today? Victor’s dead. I figured it out yesterday, too. Every day I figure it out again. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like there’s no one I can —” Voicemail #6: “So, yeah, I’m sorry. That last message went a little pear-shaped. You like that expression? Sam said it the other day. Hey, try this theory on for size: I think he’s a dead British housewife reincarnated into a Beatle’s body. You know, I used to know this band that put on fake British accents for their shows. Boy, did they suck, aside from being assholes. I can’t remember their name now. I’m either getting senile or I’ve done enough to my brain that stuff’s falling out. Not so fair of me to make this one-sided, is it? I’m always talking about myself in these things. So, how are you, Isabel Rosemary Culpeper? Smile lately? Hot Toddies. That was the name of the band. The Hot Toddies.” Voicemail #20: “I wish you’d answer.

Don't leave a message," his voicemail said. "If you do, I might call you back. We could end up communicating, and that would be awkward.

Do you still fall asleep listening to his old voicemails every night?

Can you take me back into town?" I say. "I can't get my voicemails." "Why don't you calm down, D-Dub. I know you're menstruating, but everything's going to be fine. Once we get inside, I'll explain all about maxi pads, personal hygiene and the feel of a man's penis.

Why do extroverts have voicemail? To never miss a call. Why do introverts have voicemail? To never answer the phone.

I admire these phone hackers. I think they have a lot of patience. I can't even be bothered to check my OWN voicemails.

I received a voicemail from my grandmother that said "I'm coming to visit, dear. Don't bother locking the doors." Today is the second anniversary of her death.

Toasted almond pancakes. Sweet soft 'okays'. Makin' me laugh more in a few weeks than I have in decades. 'Yes, Daddys' I feel in my dick. The first voicemail you left me, babe. I saved it and I listen to it once a day. If I lose focus, I see you on your back, knees high, legs wide, offering your sweet, wet pussy to me. You smile at me in bed every time you wander outta my bedroom in my shirts, my tees, or your work clothes and honest to Christ, it sets me up for the day. And no matter what shit goes down, I get through it knowin' whichever bed I climb into at night, you're in it ready to snuggle into me or give me what I wanna take. Your girl, a headache. You, never. And in a life that's been full of headaches, babe, having that, there is no price tag. You gotta get it and do it fuckin' now that there's a lotta different kinds of give and take. And you give as good as you get, baby, trust me.

When nature calls, I don't let it go to voicemail.

Abby and Gretchen still kept up, but it was phone calls and letters, then postcards and voicemail, and finally emails and Facebook likes. There was no falling-out, no great tragedy, just a hundred thousand trivial moments they didn’t share, each one an inch of distance between them, and eventually those inches added up to miles.

The number of calls from you on my phone is zero. The number of calls from me to you is one. When you hear the voicemail, I hope you don’t hear the desperation in the way I wish you all the luck in the world and tell you how pleased I am for you. I hope you don’t hear the way my lungs breathe ‘iloveyouineedyoupleasedontgo’ every time I draw in a breath.

Dick called, but he just left dirty voice-mail messages. Let's just say if I'm ever in the market for a massage involving canola oil and marabou feathers, I'm covered.

He’s a lot better when he’s with you. He’s better because he’s happier.

Can't you just see it? Can't you see us with gray hair, sitting at those late night football games. I'll be the dad with one eye on my football playing sons, and the other on our daughter, who if she looks anything like you, I will need to carry a gun to fight off all of those horny teenage boys.

…I ignore the message from Jenna, who wants to talk about Kayla and what a bitch she is. I think she actually said "witch" in the voicemail, but if that's what she means, I don't see what a difference the vocabulary makes

Please don’t ever tell Jace I said he was a badass.

I have looked back on portraits of our ancestors. Gabriel Lightwood was notably smoking. It is rumored that one Consul agreed with everything my great-great aunt Felicia Lightwood ever said, because when she spoke all he heard was ‘Foxy foxy foxy.’ If you break up with Alec, you will not only be losing one stone cold fox, but a family of foxes. I will pass down the word to my children’s children. No Lightwood is ever going to so much as wink at you in a bar. Think about that. Think about being Lightwoodless and lonely five hundred years from now, in a sad and chilly nightclub on the moon.

Make mental note to listen to voicemail and change ringtone to something less embarrassing (this one is called 'Jive' and is far too funky for hospice setting. Not that funk does not have role in place of sickness, just that is not always appropriate).

I hold the seashell up to my ear, not with the anticipation of hearing the crash of the ocean waves but with the crushing hope of catching even the smallest note of your voice one last time. -immortalized by a voicemail

I know you have your own life, his mother said to his voicemail. I was just hoping to be part of it for a few hours.

Don't find a nice guy. You'd get bored, and he wouldn't know what to do with you. So... yeah, be pissed at me if you want, but you--you're one-of-a-kind..." He paused, unsure of what he was really trying to say. "So just find a guy that gets that, you know?" He rolled his eyes at the longest voicemail in history. "Or just ignore me, because it's none of my business, anyway.

One girl raved about a nice voicemail a guy had recently left her. I kindly requested she play it and heard this gem: 'Hey, Lydia. It's Sam. Just calling to say what's up. Gimme a ring when you get a chance.' THAT WAS IT. I pleaded to know what was so great about this. She sweetly recalled that 'he remembered my name, he said hi, and he told me to call him back.' Never mind the fact that what she described was the content of LITERALLY EVERY VOICE MAIL IN HISTORY. Name, hello, please call back. Not really a boatload of charm on display. To fail this test, a guy would have to leave a message that said: 'No greeting. This is man. I don't remember you. End communication.

Hi, you've reached Caitlin! I'm either on the other line or I'm purposely ignoring you. Or maybe Mrs. Mitchell confiscated my phone for texting in class again... Leave a message and if I deem you worthy, or at least hot, I'll call you back. Mwah!

Calvin clears his throat. “Do you have anything to drink?” Booze. Right. This is the perfect situation for some booze. I jump up, and he laughs, awkwardly. “I should have thought to get champagne or something.” “You bought the dinner,” I remind him. “Obviously the champagne was on my list and I dropped the ball.” Pulling a bottle of vodka from the freezer, I set it on the counter and then realize I have nothing to mix it with. And I finished the last beer the other night. “I have vodka.” He smiles valiantly. “Straight-up vodka it is.” “It’s Stoli.” “Straight-up mediocre vodka it is,” he amends with a cheeky wink. His phone buzzes, and it sets off a weird, giddy reaction in my chest. We both have full lives beyond this apartment, which remain complete mysteries to each other. One difference between us is that Calvin likely doesn’t care about my life outside of this. Yet I care intensely about his. Having him here feels like finding the key to unlock a mysterious chest that’s been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for a year. Buzz. Buzz. Looking up, I meet his eyes. They’re wide, almost as if he’s not sure whether to answer. “You can get it,” I assure him. “It’s okay.” His face darkens with a flush. “I . . . don’t think I should.” “It’s your phone! Of course it’s okay to answer it.” “It’s not . . .” Buzz. Buzz. Unless, maybe, it’s some Mafia drug lord and if he answers his ruse is up and I’ll kick him out. Or—gasp—maybe it’s a girlfriend calling? Why had this not occurred to me? Buzz. Buzz. “Oh my God. Do you have a girlfriend?” He looks horrified. “What? Of course not.” Buzz. Buzz. Holy shit, how long until his voicemail puts us out of our misery? “. . . Boyfriend?” “I don’t—” he starts, smiling through a wince. “It’s not.” “ ‘Not’?” “My phone isn’t ringing.” I stare at him, bewildered. His blush deepens. “It’s not a phone.” When he says this, I know he’s right. It doesn’t have the right rhythm to be a phone. I lift the vodka to my lips and chug straight from the bottle. The buzzing has the exact rhythm of my vibrator . . . the one I tucked beneath that cushion on the couch days ago. I’m going to need to be pretty drunk to deal with this.

(Jen gets completely sloshed and it's not her wedding) I was supposed to meet Carol and her family at the aquarium the next morning, and somehow had the presence of mind to leave a voicemail apologizing in advance for not being able to make it. I was please at myself for being so responsible and considerate. After I left the message, I blissfully headed off to bed, wearing a face full of makeup, all my grown up jewelry, and a relatively restrictive girdle. Suffice it to say, yesterday was rough, what with my apartment spinning and all. But today I felt better. That is, until Carol played me the voice mail I left for her at 1:03 AM. Somehow I thought I had been able to hold it together on the phone. Following is a transcript of the message I left: 30 seconds of heavy breathing, giggling, and intermittent hiccups (At first Carol thought it was a 911 call.) Oh, heeheehee, I waassshh wayyyting for a beep. But noooooo beeeeeeep. Why don't you hash a beep on your, your, ummmmmm...celery phone? Noooooo beeeeeeep, hic, heeheeeheee. Um, hiiiiii, itsch JEENNNNNNNN!! It's thirteen o'clock in the peeeeeee eeeemmmmmmm. Heeeeeeeellllllllllloooooooo! I went to my wedding tonight and it wash sooooo niiiiiiiiiice. Hic." More giggling and the sound of a phone being dropped and retrieved Nannyway, I am calling to telllll you noooooooooo fishies tomorry...no fishies for meeee! I hic, heeeee, can't smake it to the quariyummm. Maybeeee you can call me so I can say HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII later hich in the day hee hee hee. Call me at, um, 312, ummmmmmm, 312, uummmmm, hee hee hee I can't member my phone, Hic. Do you know my number? Can you call me and tell me what it isssch? I LIKESH TURKEY SAMMICHES! 10 seconds of chewing, giggling, and what may be gobbling sounds Okay, GGGGGGGGooooooodniiiiiiiiiggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhttttt! No fish! Um, how do I turn this tthing off? Shhhhh, callllls' over. Beeee quiiiiiiietttt, hee hee hee." 15 more seconds of giggles, hiccups, shushing, and a great deal of banging Perhaps this is why most people only have one wedding?

diverting him to voicemail. He left one too. Who the fuck does that?

Everyone is called, but most let it go to voicemail. What's worse, when the Universe tries to leave a message, it gets 'mailbox full.'" -- Derek Rydall

But the for serious offline impact of 09/11 was the continual contact, continuous contact, it encouraged. On 09/12 everyone went out and bought phones. The mobiles, the cells. Suddenly, to lose touch was to die, and the only prayer left for anyone who felt buried whether under information or debris was for a signal strong enough to let their last words outlive them on voicemail.

Stop fantasizing about the ideal relationship, career or community and getting stuck in longing for it. Instead, work hard for what’s possible and see it through to completion. Don’t look for beauty and meaning only in the extraordinary or unusual but in the ordinary and simple as well. When the past calls, let it go to voicemail. It has nothing new to say to you. Don’t embellish and get swept up in your feelings. In the words of Jack Kornfield, “No emotion is final.

him. I sped home, calling her phone repeatedly only to hear her voicemail time after time. I barreled through the front door, half expecting to find Erica there. But the house was quiet and dark. I went to the kitchen, explored every room on

the first bell rings. like all the bells in our fine institute of lower learning, it's not a bell at all, it's a long beep, like you're about to leave a voicemail saying you're having the suckiest day ever. and nobody's ever going to listen to it.

De periode waarin mijn ouders het bezit van een mobiele telefoon met elkaar deelden, was te kort geweest voor mijn vader om het gebruik ervan in veel detail aan mijn moeder uit te leggen. Dat kwam mooi uit, want mijn moeder is niet geïnteresseerd in hoe dingen werken. Ze wil alleen maar dát het werkt. Dat is het mooie aan oud worden: je leert de overbodigheid van kennis waarderen. Na mijn vaders dood hield mijn moeder de gsm. Nu kan ze opnemen, bellen, haar prepaidkaart laden en zelfs sms'en. Het instellen van de voicemail daarentegen is een concept dat haar idee van de maakbare wereld ver overstijgt. Dus toen ik mijn moeder belde was het mijn vader die opnam. Het deed goed zijn stem weer te horen. Alleen jammer dat hij ook nu weer zei dat hij eventjes niet bereikbaar was.

Well, on some level, it’s similar to the psychological phenomenon of helplessness, where the will to try is lost. You get to the point where you just assume that your spontaneous call to a friend will go to voicemail or an assistant, and you decide not to bother.

Sometimes my anxiety gets hard in ways that you might not expect. If you struggle with anxiety, you probably know this feeling, the paralysis. I get stuck and suddenly it’s been days since I replied to people on the internet and the pressure gets worse and I panic that people I haven’t responded to are mad at me, so I ignore their emails and I don’t look at my DMs or my texts and I don’t answer my phone or listen to voicemails, because if I just wait until my mind gets better, maybe I can deal with this then, but I don’t, because it doesn’t. And instead, I look at those unopened emails from my friends and family and colleagues until I have memorized the subject lines by heart and I think about how strange it is that they probably think I’m ignoring them when, in fact, I am utterly haunted by them.

phone calls and letters, then postcards and voicemail, and finally emails and Facebook likes. There was no falling-out, no great tragedy, just a hundred thousand trivial moments they didn’t share, each one an inch of distance between them, and eventually those inches added up to miles.

He nods and comes to sit back down, his face serious again. “Are you going to do this a lot?” “Define ‘this.’ I do a lot of stupid stuff.” “Leave me voicemails breaking up with me.” “Officer Dan, we can’t break up ’cause we were never together.” “Mattie,” he growls. “Maybe.” “Well, get over it because I love you, Mattie Hathaway. I’m not sure what that means right now, but I do. You’re stuck with me, Squirt. I’m not going anywhere.

Funny how such innocuous details—the red blip of a voicemail, the single-page letter from a bank requesting a meeting to discuss the foreclosure, the subtle appearance of moving boxes in the garage—can upend your world. Unlike monsters or faeries or kidnappers, you never see these details coming. They don't draw blood or leave visible scars or bruises. You can't fight against them or use magick to fix them. You can only wait to see if you survive them.

You're really not frightened of what might happen" "No, I mean, of course I am," he says. "It definitely stays a secret until after the election. And I know it'll be messy. But if we can get ahead of the narrative, wait for the right time and do it on our own terms, I think it could be okay." "How long have you been thinking about this?" "Consciously? Since, like, the DNC. Subconsciously, in total denial? A long-ass time. At least since you kissed me." Henry stares at him from the pillow. "That's... kind of incredible." "What about you?" "What about me?" Henry says. "Christ, Alex. The whole bloody time." "The whole time?" "Since the Olympics." "The Olympics." Alex yanks Henry's pillow out from under him. "But thats', that's like --" "Yes Alex, the day we met, nothing gets past you, does it?" Henry says, reaching to steal the pillow back. "'What about you,' he says, as if he doesn't know--" "Shut your mouth," Alex says, grinning like an idiot, and he stops fighting Henry for the pillow and instead straddles hima nd kisses him into the mattress. He pulls the blankets up and they disappear into the pile, a laughing mess of mouths and hands, until Henry rolls onto the phone and his ass presses the button on the voicemail. "Diaz, you insane, hopeless romantic little shit," says the voice of the President of the United States, muffled on the bed. "It had better be forever. Be safe.

I bring up my last text, sent to Strane four hours ago: So, are you ok . . . ? He still hasn’t responded, hasn’t even read it. I type out another—I’m here if you want to talk—then think better and delete it, send instead a wordless line of question marks. I wait a few minutes, try calling him, but when the voicemail kicks in, I shove my phone in my pocket and leave my apartment, yanking the door closed behind me. There’s no need to try so hard. He created this mess. It’s his problem, not mine

For example, instead of saying "The guy didn't' return my call," maybe you should say, "If I'd left a more creative voicemail, maybe the guy would have called me back," or "If my voicemail had value and purpose, maybe the guy would have called me back." The reversal of blame toward others is not to blame yourself. Rather, it's to take responsibility for what happened, and create a lesson from it so that blame becomes responsibility, becomes an idea or a new strategy, and ultimately becomes a sale.

some loves are not rational. they are simply impractical. they are not forever loves. they are fleeting moments. outstretched hands. a kiss on the cheek on tippy toes. they are falling asleep with the tv on, shoulders touching. they are voicemails that will never be listened to. a message that will never be read. but the great loves are not the only ones that help you grow. the little loves teach us how to love without expectation. the little loves teach us how to live a life filled with the love we deserve.

Huntington’s had affected his mind—the way he thought, the things he thought of. Manic ups and downs had developed in his personality. I’d read enough to know everything he was going through was the norm, but something in his voicemail told me his message was more than just a random thought during a downswing. I hadn’t spoken to Summer in years. Even though I’d come clean to Jayce about my relationship with her, I’d ended things not long after he got out of the hospital. Why was he thinking about it now? It felt like he wanted to make sure I didn’t carry that weight with me after he was gone. I prayed I was wrong

Well, friends, he lost a full day of his life that weekend. Or maybe it was more? Maybe it was a day and a half? Two days? Our friend Seth called him twice during that time and it didn’t go straight to voicemail, but it went after-seeing-Seth-was-calling straight to voicemail. The sun went up, the sun went down, he realized he’d had to pee for an hour, and at some point he thought to order Chinese food (steamed chicken and vegetables, no water chestnuts, please), but mostly he remained aloft on the wind of the messages he was getting—women who wanted to LOL at his every joke, and send winkies, and pictures, and set his weary heart afire with double entendre

Having already been in the process of filing him away, burying him with the other men who evaporate after pulverizing my cervix, I am relieved, and yes, I am ashamed. I want to say that I am not that kind of girl. Portable, contorting herself over an inaccessible, possibly disinterested man, but what if I am? There are worse things - factory farming and Christian rock and the three-dimensional animation of Mr. Clean. Because maybe I don't want to be cool. Maybe I want to be all-purpose. Maybe I can't pretend to be aloof to men who are aloof to me. So I text him two hundred words' worth of things I know about baboons and I play Rebecca's voicemail again with this exchange still fresh.

The deletions included acorn, adder, ash, beech, bluebell, buttercup, catkin, conker, cowslip, cygnet, dandelion, fern, hazel, heather, heron, ivy, kingfisher, lark, mistletoe, nectar, newt, otter, pasture and willow. The words introduced to the new edition included attachment, block-graph, blog, broadband, bullet-point, celebrity, chatroom, committee, cut-and-paste, MP3 player and voice-mail.

Hi Magnus. This is Alec. Alexander. I guess you don’t want to talk to me. I can understand that. But I really think if we were together…if I could just explain… I’m so bad with words. I’m sorry. But you always seemed to know what I meant. I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. I want to talk to you so badly, but if I can’t, I guess I’m calling to say… I’m really sorry. I just called to say that.

Snowden called the NSA ‘self-certifying’. In the debate over who ruled the internet, the NSA provided a dismaying answer: ‘We do.’ The slides, given to Poitras and published by Der Spiegel magazine, show that the NSA had developed techniques to hack into iPhones. The agency assigned specialised teams to work on other smartphones too, such as Android. It targeted BlackBerry, previously regarded as the impregnable device of choice for White House aides. The NSA can hoover up photos and voicemail. It can hack Facebook, Google Earth and Yahoo Messenger. Particularly useful is geo-data, which locates where a target has been and when. The agency collects billions of records a day showing the location of mobile phone users across the world. It sifts them – using powerful analytics – to discover ‘co-travellers’. These are previously unknown associates of a target. Another

If you haven’t sent them an email yet, send an email as soon as you leave them the voicemail—give them more than one way to get back to you. Example 1: “Hi John, this is Aaron Ross from Salesforce.com. My number is 555-555-5555. John, I sent you an email a couple of days ago and hadn’t heard back, and I was hoping you could give me a quick courtesy response. I’ll resend it here in a minute. Again, Aaron Ross, 555-555-5555. Thank you and have a great day.” Example 2: “Hi John, this is Aaron Ross from Salesforce.com. My number is 555-555-5555. John, I’m calling to follow up on the email I sent you, I’d love to hear either way if you can please help me out or not. Again, Aaron Ross, 555-555-5555. Thank you and have a great day.” Example 3: (the mysterious version): “Hi John, this is Aaron Ross following up. My number is 555-555-5555. I’m free after 3pm today. Again, Aaron Ross, from Salesforce.com, 555-555-5555. Thanks and have a great day.

Okay. Fine. Why are you disappointed in me, Cletus?” “Because I provided means and opportunity. All you had to do was exploit the situation.” “What are you talking about?” “On Friday? With the blankets and coffee? You think that was all by accident? That was arranged.” “Arranged?” I blinked at him while he tore off another piece of his doughnut. It smelled like it was strawberry flavored. “Yes. Arranged.” Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms and examined Cletus. I decided he was odd. “You’re odd.” “Yes. I am. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you fumbled my pass. If we’re going to make this thing happen with Jethro, I need you to bring your A-game.” “This is about Jethro?” I sat up straighter. “Of course. What’d you think I was talking about?” Apparently I wasn’t catching on quickly enough because he sighed loudly and rolled his eyes with great effect. “Do you want my help or not?” “Yes, yes, yes,” I said quickly, leaning forward at full attention. “Yes. I want your help.” “Fine then. We need to coordinate our attack.” Cletus punctuated this statement by popping the remainder of the first doughnut in his mouth. “Good. Yes. Attack synchronization.” My phone rang as he chewed. I glanced at the screen, saw it was Marta, and sent it to voicemail. Marta called back immediately, earning me a severe frown from Cletus. “You should get that.” He gestured to my phone. “You get that and I’ll ruminate while eating this other doughnut.

His phone dinged again. “This crazy-ass voicemail. It’s all jacked—Wait, when did you call me?” “Please don’t listen to that,” I blurted. He grinned. “Okay, now I have to hear it. Was this last night? Were you drunk? Did you drunk-dial me?” he teased. But it was too late, he’d already lifted the phone. Bile rose in my throat and the room became a thousand degrees hotter. “Please. Don’t.” “Why? What’s wrong?” He grew quiet and listened. “I don’t hear anything. Wait. You didn’t mean to call, did you? Is that another guy?” I put my face in my hands. Cade was quiet as he listened. And I prayed for a giant black hole to open and swallow me. His phone made a soft thump as he tossed it onto the coffee table. The couch moved with him as he settled back. “You can uncover your face now.” His tone didn’t sound angry but I still couldn’t face him. His hands slid around my wrists and gently tugged, forcing me to lower them. I swallowed the lump in my throat, annoyed that I didn’t even have my own car to leave. “Was that your roommate?” he asked. I nodded, my face still tucked down. “And…her boyfriend?” “No, her best friend.” “So you told your roommate about me?” I could hear the smile in his voice and looked up. “I mean, I assume you don’t know a bunch of ‘therapy dog’ guys named Cade, but I could be wrong.” “You aren’t pissed about what you heard?” “All I heard were some friends teasing you…about me. They think you want me. Bad.” He grinned. “And what I said?” “Were you serious? Because to me you sounded annoyed, maybe even defensive. And considering you stayed home last night and are with me tonight, I don’t think you really planned a, how did you put it? ‘Weekend fuckfest.’ ” He bit back a smile. “You were never supposed to hear that.” I crossed my arms. “And I expected you to be upset, not tease me about it.” He grabbed my hand. “C’mon, I’m sorry. Did you want to have a weekend fuckfest? I don’t want to interfere with your plans.” He tugged my hand, urging me to look up. “Look, we can have one. I’m game. Don’t stop on account of me.” “Shut up.” His hand made its way to my arm and he slid me along the leather couch, and tucked me into him. “Quit being all grumpy. I’m RSVPing to your fuckfest. I mean, I’ve never had one, but it seems pretty self-explanatory.” “You’re an asshole.” And by that I really meant the most perfect fucking guy ever. Who hears something like that and plays it totally cool? “So, am I also supposed to bend you over a table or something? Because I think your roommate might have mentioned that as well.” I shoved him back while trying hard not to smile. “I hate you.” He laughed and scooped me into his lap. “If it makes you feel any better, my roommate knows I have the hots for you too.” I rolled my eyes

No Late Messages: It is proper netiquette to send messages within an appropriate time frame. NetworkEtiquette.net

Love is so different here In another hemisphere All I can do is sit and stare at your lovely, Stare at your lovely face We've been out every night You're mine without a fight Holding on to you is simple and new, I'm dying for you Living away from you is killing and bleeding My lungs are receding Something about you just makes me whole Come down for a drink or two And sit beside the window's view Make room for the looks we'll share As I focus on you And you comb through your hair I know that I'm not your choice But the girl I was wasn't who you loved And so I'm gonna sit outside And think of you Is that alright? You cannot flee from love Knicks and bruises are just trophy cups I've got your scent embroidered, and stuck in my senses Latched onto my front brain Call me never; leave no voicemails How can I be sure you're still around? It's not addiction, I'm just affixed to you And your open wounds Living away from you is killing and bleeding My lungs are receding Something about you just quits me cold Come down for a drink or two And sit beside the window's view Make room for the looks we'll share As I focus on you And you comb through your hair I know that I'm not your choice But the boy I was wasn't who you loved And so I'm gonna sit outside And think of you Is that alright? He can't afford what I give you Love that is truly eternal His ring can't mean what you mean to me It's not touch I need Just for you to know me But you'll never know me 'Cause you're just a fantasy Come down for a drink or two And sit beside the window's view Make room for the looks we'll share As I focus on you And you comb through your hair I know that I'm not your choice But the boy I was wasn't who you loved And so I'm gonna sit outside And think of you Is that alright?

I'd rather err on the side of being super picky and happily alone than throwing it all away on someone who can't even be bothered to listen to his voicemail over the course of an entire three day weekend.

The more we communicate with God, the shorter the distance to the long distance call! He never has voicemail on! EL

What happened to the troubled young reporter who almost brought this magazine down The last time I talked to Stephen Glass, he was pleading with me on the phone to protect him from Charles Lane. Chuck, as we called him, was the editor of The New Republic and Steve was my colleague and very good friend, maybe something like a little brother, though we are only two years apart in age. Steve had a way of inspiring loyalty, not jealousy, in his fellow young writers, which was remarkable given how spectacularly successful he’d been in such a short time. While the rest of us were still scratching our way out of the intern pit, he was becoming a franchise, turning out bizarre and amazing stories week after week for The New Republic, Harper’s, and Rolling Stone— each one a home run. I didn’t know when he called me that he’d made up nearly all of the bizarre and amazing stories, that he was the perpetrator of probably the most elaborate fraud in journalistic history, that he would soon become famous on a whole new scale. I didn’t even know he had a dark side. It was the spring of 1998 and he was still just my hapless friend Steve, who padded into my office ten times a day in white socks and was more interested in alphabetizing beer than drinking it. When he called, I was in New York and I said I would come back to D.C. right away. I probably said something about Chuck like: “Fuck him. He can’t fire you. He can’t possibly think you would do that.” I was wrong, and Chuck, ever-resistant to Steve’s charms, was as right as he’d been in his life. The story was front-page news all over the world. The staff (me included) spent several weeks re-reporting all of Steve’s articles. It turned out that Steve had been making up characters, scenes, events, whole stories from first word to last. He made up some funny stuff—a convention of Monica Lewinsky memorabilia—and also some really awful stuff: racist cab drivers, sexist Republicans, desperate poor people calling in to a psychic hotline, career-damaging quotes about politicians. In fact, we eventually figured out that very few of his stories were completely true. Not only that, but he went to extreme lengths to hide his fabrications, filling notebooks with fake interview notes and creating fake business cards and fake voicemails. (Remember, this was before most people used Google. Plus, Steve had been the head of The New Republic ’s fact-checking department.) Once we knew what he’d done, I tried to call Steve, but he never called back. He just went missing, like the kids on the milk cartons. It was weird. People often ask me if I felt “betrayed,” but really I was deeply unsettled, like I’d woken up in the wrong room. I wondered whether Steve had lied to me about personal things, too. I wondered how, even after he’d been caught, he could bring himself to recruit me to defend him, knowing I’d be risking my job to do so. I wondered how I could spend more time with a person during the week than I spent with my husband and not suspect a thing. (And I didn’t. It came as a total surprise). And I wondered what else I didn’t know about people. Could my brother be a drug addict? Did my best friend actually hate me? Jon Chait, now a political writer for New York and back then the smart young wonk in our trio, was in Paris when the scandal broke. Overnight, Steve went from “being one of my best friends to someone I read about in The International Herald Tribune, ” Chait recalled. The transition was so abrupt that, for months, Jon dreamed that he’d run into him or that Steve wanted to talk to him. Then, after a while, the dreams stopped. The Monica Lewinsky scandal petered out, George W. Bush became president, we all got cell phones, laptops, spouses, children. Over the years, Steve Glass got mixed up in our minds with the fictionalized Stephen Glass from his own 2003 roman à clef, The Fabulist, or Steve Glass as played by Hayden Christiansen in the 2003

You could buy a burrito there, a lottery ticket, batteries, tests for various diseases. You could do voice-mail, e-mail, send faxes. It had occurred to Laney that this was probably the only store for miles that sold anything that anyone ever really needed; the others all sold things that he couldn’t even imagine wanting.

Most modern cell phones have a built-in GPS chip, even if you don’t have any kind of GPS software. Allegedly to make it easier for emergency services to find you when you dial 911.” “Allegedly?” Caitlin asked. “It also makes it easier for our burgeoning police state to keep tabs on innocent citizens,” Pixie said. “Have I told you what the NSA does with voicemail—” I cleared my throat.

Hey, it’s nice of you to show up!” That was a decent start. “What has it been—a year since you flattened my heart by leaving without a word and ignoring all of my texts, messages, and voicemails?

This is probably going to sound a little weird”—he made a sound like a soft chuckle—“sorry. The accent on your voicemail reminds me of my mom’s sister. She’s from Savannah. She used to call everything bat-shit crazy. That’s what made me laugh just now.” The voice stopped, and Harper thought he’d disconnected. A

Jelani hasn’t stopped calling and text messaging me since Thursday. Every day there has been more than twenty calls, a dozen voicemails, damn near hundreds of text messages, and only God knows how many times he IM’d me because I haven’t logged in out of fear.             “He’s

Mia called LaShon’s phone and just as always it would ring and then go to voicemail. It was at the point where LaShon no longer answered Mia’s phone calls or returned them.

Though she promised that she would take care of things, she was ghost, just like I thought. She wasn’t answering my text messages, and she was straight sending me to voicemail when I called. I

Asia called me and I sent her to voicemail. Until she had a good enough explanation for why she didn’t tell me about those agents approaching her, I had nothing to say to her. At

Columbia University received a $5.7 Million grant of tax-payer money in 2012 (expiring in 2017) from the National Science Foundation to create “Games and game-like approaches [to] motivate exploration and learning of complex material” in order for students to experience horrible scenarios that never happened but could happen from “climate change.” Students playing these “learning games” are listening to pre-recorded, fake “voicemails” of people screaming, gasping for air, and being swept away by tsunami waves. This information is included here because we need to understand just how disconnected from reality and utterly bizarre the insane indoctrination has become.

I hadn’t seen Maurice since, and it had gotten to the point that my mom was with him almost every day. And I had heard my mother yelling into my dad’s voicemail about not picking up her calls. “And

DeMarco had been sending me text messages and leaving me voicemails begging me to tell the truth. What I thought was interesting was how he was now blowing up my phone when the son of a bitch was completely ignoring me before. Fuck

Then I began calling advertising agencies, as I had done during the research-and-information phase, but this time I was dead serious. I needed someone to take a chance on me—anyone. And it was hard. Getting people on the phone was a piece of cake, but finding the person who made the decisions was almost impossible. I would leave one voice-mail, no more—because I didn’t want to sound desperate—then follow it up with an e-mail. If I didn’t have an e-mail address, I’d guess, which really isn’t that complicated. First initial, last name, @whatevercompany.com. And whenever someone actually responded, I was ready. “I have a company called Click Agents,” I would say. “We have a consortium of Web sites. I can get your ads on those sites, and I will price them on a per-click basis.” I

Dude, I think I’ve solved the next riddle! Meet me tomorrow morning for breakfast. Seriously. Breakfast. If your butt isn’t out of bed by ten o’clock, I’m coming up there with a Taser and a pot of coffee. – May (on Trick’s voicemail)

Yoshi. All week she had been throwing shots on Facebook and threatening me on my voicemail. That bitch just signed her Death Certificate. I

calling my voicemail over and over just so I could hear their voices once more. Even now, I still have those messages saved. Sometimes all I needed to hear was my mom saying ‘I love you’ to remember I was lucky enough to have had them at all.

Many facilities use a written request process, but some settings now use a verbal voicemail or a kiosk system for requests. Whatever system is used, it should be confidential and only accessible by health care staff. In the simple paper request system, a locked dropbox is often available on every housing unit. Inmates obtain request slips from the housing officer, complete the information and submit to the dropbox where health care staff pick up requests on daily rounds. Access

She opened the case file and attached an audio clip, hitting the background record button. She still had the doctor’s number in her call log and dialled it.  It rang for a while and then went to voicemail. ‘You’ve reached Elliot Day, I can’t get to the phone just now, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you.’ The voice told her he was well-brought-up. South-England native. But she couldn’t place where. ‘Hi,’ she said after the beep. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Jamie Johansson. I’d like to speak to you regarding your work at the homeless shelter in Enfield. It’s in accordance with an active investigation. If you could call me back at your earliest convenience, that would be great. Thank you.’ She hung up and sighed, stopped the recording, and then went back to the case file, finding the number for Oliver’s parents. She hit record again, copied it and called them immediately, not wanting to put it off any longer. After three rings, a tired voice answered. ‘Hello?’ ‘Mr Hammond?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘This is Detective Sergeant Jamie Johansson with the London Metropolitan Police. I understand that one of my colleagues informed you that I might be getting in touch?’ There was silence for a second and then she heard him swallow. ‘That’s right… But I don’t know what I can tell you,’ he said quietly. It sounded like he was moving from room to room, cupping the phone to his mouth. Maybe he didn’t want Oliver’s mum to hear. ‘Any information you provide could be very useful. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’ ‘Sure,’ he said, his voice small. ‘Would it be okay if I recorded this conversation?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, almost absently. Jamie hated asking it — it never had a positive impact on the conversations that came after. Made them stunted, reserved. But she had to ask.

Kabat-Zinn points out that we all know it’s wrong to interrupt each other. And yet we constantly interrupt ourselves. We do it when we check our emails incessantly—or won’t simply let a phone go to voicemail when we’re doing something we enjoy—or when we don’t think a thought through, but allow our minds to fix on temporary concerns or desires.

Many people from other firms were (and are) shocked at the speed and amount of information shared, often mentioning their need to adjust to Goldman’s urgent voicemail (e-mail) culture.

he got there because you would need the energy,” he laughed, “Kerem let me and Travis listen to the whole thing. Y’all talked until the voicemail disconnected the call.” “El,

I couldn’t help but wonder when the fuck someone was going to try to contact that fucker and realize he wasn’t answering his phone. By now, his phone was probably dead, so his calls would go straight to voicemail. Like, come on. Find the body, put him on the news; was that too much to ask?

Zarya wanted to kill someone. As of today, it’d been nineteen weeks since she’d last spoken to her fiancé. Nineteen. Weeks. Tomorrow would be five months. His voicemail had filled up over three months ago, and hadn’t been cleared. I know he’s dead. He had to be. It was the only explanation that made sense. Why else had he not called her? Kere would never leave her hanging like this.

Did you know that you can integrate your telecommunications and office network together so you get an email that reads a voicemail message to you? -

The Obama Administration has been trying to indoctrinate the public with its climate ideology in many ways and through a variety of agencies. This includes material on agency websites, advocacy of climate “education,”470 exhibits in National Parks,471 and grants by the National Science Foundation. One example is the $700,000 NSF grant to The Civilians, a New York theatre company, to finance the production of a show entitled “The Great Immensity,”472 “a play and media project about our environmental challenges.”473 A second example is a $5.7 million grant to Columbia University to record “voicemails from the future” that paint a picture of an Earth destroyed due to climate change.474 A third example is a $4.9 million grant to the University of Wisconsin-Madison to create scenarios based on America’s climate actions on climate change including a utopian future where everyone rides bicycles and courts forcibly take property from the wealthy.475 The general approach pursued by the Administration for arts and education-related climate propaganda appears to be very similar to the similar propaganda campaigns by Soviet and Eastern European governments to promote their political ends.

Jasmine sat on her bed, worrying her bottom lip as she listened to the phone ring. Damn it, where the hell was Stephanie? Obviously not answering her cell phone, that was for sure. When the voicemail kicked in Jasmine fidgeted as she waited for the beep to finally arrive. "How dare you have a life and not be around to answer the phone when I need to talk to you. Call me.

Toyed with the idea of letting it go to voicemail, then remembered the sick messages the phone-sex salesman had been leaving me,

Voicemail is seriously underrated as a communication medium. It’s one-way communication instead of two-way. As such, the caller leaving the message gets to the root of the issue in seconds rather than in minutes and by the time you call them back, you’re both halfway through the conversation that needs to happen.

Also at that moment, Arthur Scorpio was dialing Billy in Wyoming again. Again there was no answer. Just voicemail. Scorpio said, “Billy, this is Arthur. I need to hear from you. You’re making me worried now. What’s with not answering your phone all the time? And you got that guy coming. Plus maybe another guy. We just got a message from Montana. They sent a rider down especially. They have a Fed up there asking questions. He just left Billings. We don’t know where he’s headed next. Eyes open, OK? And call me back. Don’t make me worried, Billy.” He clicked off and dropped the phone in the trash basket.

Rita shook her head. “You see,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard a word I said, “this is exactly why it’s better to keep my distance.” I told Rita what I tell everyone who’s afraid of getting hurt in relationships—which is to say, everyone with a heartbeat. I explained to her that even in the best possible relationship, you’re going to get hurt sometimes, and no matter how much you love somebody, you will at times hurt that person, not because you want to, but because you’re human. You will inevitably hurt your partner, your parents, your children, your closest friend—and they will hurt you—because if you sign up for intimacy, getting hurt is part of the deal. But, I went on, what was so great about a loving intimacy was that there was room for repair. Therapists call this process rupture and repair, and if you had parents who acknowledged their mistakes and took responsibility for them and taught you as a child to acknowledge your mistakes and learn from them too, then ruptures won’t feel so cataclysmic in your adult relationships. If, however, your childhood ruptures didn’t come with loving repairs, it will take some practice for you to tolerate the ruptures, to stop believing that every rupture signals the end, and to trust that even if a relationship doesn’t work out, you will survive that rupture too. You will heal and self-repair and sign up for another relationship full of its own ruptures and repairs. It’s not ideal, opening yourself up like this, putting your shield down, but if you want the rewards of an intimate relationship, there’s no way around it. Still, Rita called me every day to let me know that Myron hadn’t responded. “Radio silence,” she’d say into my voicemail, then add sarcastically,

Fine. But I estimate you have about a twenty-one percent chance of making a profit.” “Really? That actually gives me hope, Dev. Thanks. I figured it was more like negative five percent.” “That might be more accurate,” he admitted. She hated to say it, but Dev was probably right. Her main problem was that the cost of fuel kept rising. Or maybe it was that boat repairs were expensive and the Forget Me Not had more leaks than a salad spinner. Or that she couldn’t steer a boat and be a guide at the same time, and therefore had to hire Captain Kid. Or that she couldn’t afford her own office and therefore had to rent a virtual closet in the back of the Jack Hammer Fishing Charters office. The receptionist, Carla, only answered the Forget Me Not Nature Tours phone line when she wasn’t busy. Plenty of potential bookings went straight to voicemail. Or maybe her biggest problem was that her

What are we talking about in 2001? A Tuesday morning with a crystalline sky. American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston to Los Angeles crashes into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175, also from Boston to Los Angeles, crashes into the South Tower at 9:03. American Airlines Flight 77 from Washington Dulles to Los Angeles hits the Pentagon at 9:37 a.m. And at 10:03 a.m., United Flight 93 from Newark to San Francisco crashes in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. There are 2,996 fatalities. The country is stunned and grief-stricken. We have been attacked on our own soil for the first time since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in December 1941. A man in a navy-blue summer-weight suit launches himself from a 103rd-floor window. An El Salvadoran line chef running late for his prep shift at Windows on the World watches the sky turn to fire and the top of the building—six floors beneath the kitchen where he works—explode. Cantor Fitzgerald. President Bush in a bunker. The pregnant widow of a brave man who says, “Let’s roll.” The plane that went down in Pennsylvania was headed for the Capitol Building. The world says, America was attacked. America says, New York was attacked. New York says, Downtown was attacked. There’s a televised benefit concert, America: A Tribute to Heroes. The Goo Goo Dolls and Limp Bizkit sing “Wish You Were Here.” Voicemail messages from the dead. First responders running up the stairs while civilians run down. Flyers plastered across Manhattan: MISSING. The date—chosen by the terrorists because of the bluebird weather—has an eerie significance: 9/11. Though we will all come to call it Nine Eleven

In that empty house, he listened to his dad's voicemail again and cried until he felt empty, until it felt like someone had reached a hand inside him and taken everything out.

Yo’, dial that bitch back!” Mizan yelled to Rich when they heard Raven hang up the phone. Mizan’s ego was crushed because Rich had placed the three-way call to Raven on Mizan’s behalf. His boy had heard all of the disrespect that Raven had dished out. When Rich tried to call Raven back, the call was sent to voicemail. “She gave me the ‘fuck you button,” Rich said, stating the obvious.

About the Phones Closing my car door, you always say - Watch for deer and text when you get home. I want to, I do, but I will forget. Time moves and I forget. - Look I am trying, I am, but it's not the kind of thing that trying solves. Once on the side of a highway, a cop told me about dragging a full grown buck out the windshield of a wrecked car all by himself. About the sounds it made, Like the devil learning what regret feels like. About the woman it kicked to death in the driver's seat. The phone call he had to make to her grown daughter after whose first question was, Did the deer survive? Different cop, different time, different highway. Said she keeps her phone on silent then spoke about securing the crime scene in that classroom in Blacksburg where one student shot all the others. Every single one of them had a cell phone, she said, and for hours after every single one rang and rang or vibrated across the floor in the same slow way that blood pools. No one was allowed to answer, no one, so instead the phones rang all night until batteries were empty, voicemails full of a thousand Call me when you get this so I know you're okays. Turns out time moves the way blood does. Batteries too. Runs out like a startled deer across a road. - Listen I am trying to find a way to tell you this. There are things that trying solves but this is not one of them.

October 6 Dear Cora, I’ve decided to write you a letter like the one I asked each person in the Friday class to write to explain why they got an A this year. Here it is: May 18 Dear Cora, I got my A because I finally broke the cycle of lashing out at people when they didn’t do exactly what I wanted them to do. I came to see that when I got angry with people or became sarcastic, it was like wiping them out, and our relationship never fully recovered. It was hard for me to “get” that what I wanted was not necessarily what they wanted. For example, if we were preparing an important and difficult concert and players didn’t come to a rehearsal or came late, I would be disappointed and angry because I thought that they should care as much about the project as I did and let nothing stand in the way of being there. Now I see that in a volunteer orchestra whose players have many other commitments, I cannot assume that everyone’s priorities are exactly the same as mine. I have come to realize that people will do what they want to do—which means that sometimes they will come to rehearsals and sometimes they won’t—and I must respect their decisions. And if in my view they fail to adequately inform me of their intentions, I now ask them politely, to please, in the future, leave a message on the voice-mail, or inform the personnel manager directly, so that we can have some idea in advance of what to expect.

It was so exasperating that one time Emily snapped, “Mom, I’m not a child! I swear it won’t matter if I’m ninety-six years old. On the day I die and I’m on my way to heaven, you’re going to say, ‘Call me when you get there.’” Her mother responded genuinely, “No I won’t, honey, because I’ll already be there, waiting for you. I’ll know the exact moment you arrive.” The recollection moved Emily to tears. She curled into a ball and cried into her pillow, but doing that irritated the scrapes on her chin and knee. She stretched flat on her back, tears trickling into her ears. It was so humid that she couldn’t even tolerate a sheet against her skin. The mosquito continued to drone so she sat back up and started randomly flailing her arms at the air above her head, which made her feel less like crying. In fact, she began to giggle and pretty soon, she was laughing outright at how ridiculous she must have looked. After she lay back down again, she spoke into the dark as if she was leaving a voicemail message, “Hi, Mom. It’s me, Emily. Just wanted to let you know I made it to the cottage safely. Gotta go. Love you, Mom. Bye.” Or maybe she just dreamed she said that, but either way, it made her feel a lot better.

I’m protecting myself, and so I haven’t been cheerfully filling his phone with voicemails and texts over the last few weeks. I’d thought this might be a relief for him, that he’d accept it and move on graciously. But here he is, raising hopes I can’t afford to have.

missing work, she’d left a consistent string of voicemails and texts for me. However, as I turned my phone back on, I saw that the attempts

I received a voicemail from my grandmother that said "I'm coming to visit, dear. Don't bother locking the doors." Today is the second anniversary of her death.

If you leave me a voicemail and ask me to call you back at my earliest convenience, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

She stopped at a gas station and used the payphone to call the number his mother had left on her voicemail. Mackenzie was the last person in California without a cellphone and normally she was proud of that.

When the past calls, let it go to voicemail. It has nothing new to say to you.

Now, if you had interviewed customers before the original iPhone was released, nobody would have asked for visual voicemail. Nobody knew visual voicemail was possible. Most people weren’t even aware of their own pain points and challenges with how regular voicemail worked. Voicemail wasn’t important enough for us to give it any thought.