Cut

They made me do it. They made me cut up my credit card; into smithereens so that I couldn’t tape it back together. Those credit counselors are smart as fuck.

I have no idea why I feel so nostalgic for that little green piece of shit, it’s not as if there was any money on it or anything; but now it’s gone forever. And I can’t get another one for…god knows when.

When I cut it up, I made a high pitch “ahh” sound like I had stubbed my toe. And I felt a deep pang in my lower abdomen like I was taking in a monster penis or something; ladies, you know what I’m talking about. I mean, it didn’t hurt, but it was certainly uncomfortable. But like any good screw, I felt better after a few pumps or in this case, some encouraging words from my “Gail”.

So it is now official; I have no credit, that said credit rating is in the toilet and I am B-R-O-K-E; but the contract is signed, the ink is dry and I am bound by law. The silver lining, and there is one, is that things are only going to get better from here.

Getting with the Program

As promised I am getting my life together; and although I can be all talk, you are now free to call me Action Jackson.

I started a program of Orderly Payment of Debt aka get off my back bitches; you’re going to get your cash. It’s like I have found my very own Gail Vaz Oxlade and I am on an episode of “Til Debt Do Us Part” except I’m not married, and this won’t end with my holding a cheque for $5000. But I do get to halt the financial fisting that has overtaken my life.

I’ll take it; I’m a dick girl, fisting has never been my thing.

In the meeting I expected my “Gail” to look at my history, burst out into a guttural laugh and then proceed to invite her co-workers to continue the guffaw. Instead she was really nice and not in the slightest bit surprised at the diarrhea stain I call my financial standing. After 30 minutes and pit stains like something fierce, we agreed that I need to “get with the program” NOW.

Wednesday I sign the agreement and sign my frivolous, head in the sand lifestyle away.

Even though I am about to be Edmonton bound for the next year, at least, I feel freedom on the horizon. I see a future of not having to screen my calls or burn someone at the stake for answering a 1-866 number; those fucking bill collectors change their phone numbers as much as drug dealers.

So to the dear folks at Bell, Visa, Rogers and TELUS, I will now gladly pick up your phone calls and the verbal assaults will now cease; which, by the way, I am terribly sorry about, she caught me on a bad day.

***Suze Orman would be so proud.