Whine and Cheese

*I will preface this post by saying that some cases I’m dealing with may be just misunderstandings and mistakes. However, I will also preface this post by saying that it really does piss me off when I have to beg and plead with someone to get them to pony up the money they were supposed to pay me. It is degrading and stupid. For the blog readers who have been listening to me whine for three months, it’ll be over soon. Continuing on.

Everyday, I check my mail, hoping that the check you owe me will be there. I sidle out to the mailbox in my flip-flops and pajama pants, saying a quick prayer before opening it.

“Please God, let the check be here. Let me keep a good relationship with this person. Let me not have to resort to bitchy behavior, bitchy phone calls, and threats to have a sit-in in someone’s office. Let me not have to say to this person ‘you will never get more work from me because you don’t pay your bills.'”

It’s so much easier to just be nice. Being bitchy is time-consuming, tiring and makes me feel icky. Unless it’s bitchiness for the sake of comedy, and then it’s hilarious.

The only thing my mailbox has brought me is bills. I don’t have the luxury of not paying Verizon, Regions, Bank of America, NES, and Metro Water. When I miss due dates, they charge me extra.

Thanks to you, I owe Citicard an extra 80 bucks. Because you haven’t paid me and I couldn’t pay them. That bill sits on my nightstand, looking at me each morning. Things like that are what keep me up at night and wake me from sleep. Last night, I had full-body restless leg syndrome wake me up at 3am. While I stood in my bedroom waiting for Nytols number 3 and 4 to kick in, I thought of you.

Each morning, you wake up in a house nicer than mine, put on shoes nicer than mine, and walk out the door with a Coach purse in your hand.

While you are walking around with your Coach purse, think of me. Each day, as my frustration builds, I come in from the mailbox and sit on my living room floor and cry. I cry because I can’t do anything else. There is no one to punch, no car to key. After I cry, I write. It’s better than getting drunk and it keeps me from throwing things.

While you slather yourself with Clinique products, I’m trapped in my house nursing stress breakouts and looking like a troll. While you grill up a steak, I eat Ramen. While you go get highlights, I watching my hair come out in handfulls in the shower.

It’s not even all about the money. It’s about me wondering how someone can look me in the eye and make a deal and then completely renege on it.

I hope, while you fall asleep at night with the help of neither Nytol nor vodka, you think of me. I am not a faceless corporation. I am a person. When you don’t pay your bills, you tell me that my work is good enough to use but not good enough to pay for. You tell me that everything you said when we met meant nothing. You tell me that you don’t care about doing what you said you would do. You tell me that you don’t have the character to honor your commitments. In my world, a person’s word is still worth something. The population keeps shrinking.

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