A Fucking Failure to Communicate

Apparently, there has been some fucktastic mix-up in my recent communication with God. I distinctly remember asking for MORE money coming IN, but noooo. Somehow, some celestial assistant doesn’t know her/his/its divine shorthand because not only is my bank account hemorrhaging green shit, but Alexis’s car is in the shop, and they’ve set bail at $400. AND the asssuck insurance company to whom we give our monthly premium for their “anorexic coverage plan” just declared my recent surgery bill “ineligible.” In tiny, little 6-point Calibri down at the bottom of the page by a 1-point asterisk is the reason for the denial: “This amount exceeds the annual maximum in plan. Because your annual maximum is 67 cents. And we are asssucks.” So. Yes. I owe TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. For a ninety-second surgical procedure. Out fucking patient.

I LOVE insurance companies and want to marry them and then catch them with the nanny so that I can divorce them immediately in Vegas and take every single cent they ever made plus the his-and-hers hand towels that were a wedding gift from their liver-spotted great aunt Eula.

I’m not mad. What makes you think I am mad?

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