©2012 Raminar Dixon
This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work is property of Raminar Dixon, please do not reproduce illegally.
I realized that my financial situation was anything but peachy the day that damn letter from the collection agency landed in my hands. Really, I guess I should have been expecting it. The credit card company had already sent three letters over the course of the last two months covered with lots of red ink and “final warnings”. These kinds of things tend to happen when you don’t pay your bills.
Of course, the credit card company wasn’t the only place after me. The long list of people I owed money to stretched all the way from the bank that give me the college loan so I could learn to party all night to my ex-friend Stacy Gichee, who I hadn’t seen since high school after she slept with my boyfriend.
I had a wonderfully shitty job as a clerk at one of those high-dollar department stores in the city. All day long, rich bitches with Coach purses and Vuitton shoes would degrade me by holding up their noses at the lowly, art school dropout, checkout girl. According to my now ex-boss, I was actually a pretty decent worker. I probably shouldn’t have been too surprised either when I got laid off.
Not having enough money to fill up the gas tank, go out with friends, or buy much more than a pack of instant noodles sucks. Listening to the same familiar phone call from the collection agent that has called you a dozen times eventually does strange things to a person. Watching as the tow truck hauls off your only means of transportation is enough to make you want to scream.