I swear to God we're like a phone bill that gets paid by someone who has to live check to check. One minute everything is fine, but all of a sudden I try to connect and get hit with a computerized voice that says “I'm sorry. The person you are trying to reach is not accepting calls at this time.” Bitch, that is not your mother fucking voicemail. I know what that sounds like. “Hey! Leave a message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.” This is something different. This is one of the few nice things phone companies try do for their customers. They could easily say “This dumb ass bum fuck is broke as hell.” They don't though. It's almost like they're trying to cover up for you. I know what the deal is though. You forgot to pay your bill. Again. Forgetting about it once or twice is acceptable, but you have forgotten more times than I am capable of counting on both my fingers and my toes. I understand I fall at the bottom of your priority list. . . but put me in there somewhere god dammit. I'm tired of getting used as a book mark for a Stephen King novel you haven't picked up in weeks. I'm sick of getting mixed in with your letters from collection agencies and belated birthday cards you'll never open. I feel unappreciated, like that sweater your great aunt knitted you two Christmases ago. You've never used that sweater though. It's hanging somewhere in the back of your closet or folded in one of the tubs underneath your bed. Me, on the other hand? You've used me over and over again. You have used me more times than you've used your Xbox, cell phone, and car combined. I have been here through all of your bullshit lies and hurtful truths, and I have finally built up enough courage to tell you that I'm done. Fertig. Finito. Finished.