OK, listen…I get it. You have bills. You have troubles. You spend more than you have. You make less than you did. You have trouble paying your mortgage. I get it. It’s stressful. It would make a grown man want to make out with a .45.
What gives you the right to get your extra money from MY pocketbook? Do I look like an ATM? I’m feeling like you’re trying to swipe your bank card on my ass crack. Don’t do that. Although I’ve been accused of carrying a roll of quarters up my ass there is not one there. Not even a roll of dimes. You MIGHT find an old stamp that wantonly ended up there after one wild night of drinking games and Maddog 20/20…but as I mentioned, it would be an old stamp, probably of the Duran Duran era, so you would probably need to add additional postage. You couldn’t even send a letter to someone who cares.
That letter, by the way, would not be addressed to me…because I don’t care. Not even in the slightest. Not an inkling. Not a bit.
You have made the choices throughout your life that have brought you to this position.
You have decided to make purchases that were well beyond what you could afford. You have, to use a common sentiment, written checks that your ass couldn’t afford to cash.
It’s a matter of morals at this point. With your declaration you have guaranteed that I will be spending money. With your threats you have handcuffed yourself to a future of attorney fees and handmade drama. Consider this your last request for more funds because I am growing balls and fighting back. And with this fight there will be bloodshed…but it will not be mine. Like an old dog waiting to be kicked, I’ve finally found my bite. Watch out, old crazy lady…cuz your time is a comin’. I’m not paying for your bad decisions any longer.