Bills are the worst things that I have ever encountered in my life. The only difference between being a kid and an adult is having bills. I don’t know about you, but if I didn’t have to pay rent, car insurance, and a ridiculous rate to talk on my cell phone, I certainly would not work. Why can’t I go back to the days when my only concerns were watching marathons of the “Cosby Show?” I’d promise to pay attention this time around when Dr. Huxtable taught Theo the value of a dollar by using Monopoly money. Instead I’m stuck at home complaining about how much I spend on a cable bill just to watch the prime time TV classic. When you hear people say, “I wish I were a kid again,” they are truly proclaiming their disdain for bills.
Bills are the only things in life that are never late. Attractive dates arrive late all the time. Every flight I have ever taken experienced some type of delay. Hell, Thanksgiving was late this year for god’s sake. There is nothing wrong with these things being late every now and then. It gives us extra time to prepare; however, bills could care less if you are ready. At the end of the month you can bet the house that they will be there lurking in your mailbox.
Additionally, don’t you just love how bills take so long to get to the point? My State Farm bill is three pages of insurance crook jargon. It is line after line of service charges followed by company mottos, legalities, and the infamous fine print. Each month, I receive three pages of lingo that if translated into English would read: “Amount due $129.48.” Honestly I would feel more comfortable if they mailed me a yellow sticky with the amount due, signed State Farm.
My biggest pet peeve with bills occurs when the due date falls on Sundays or Holidays. I find this infuriating because banks are closed, the mailman doesn’t deliver, and the staff of the bill collectors are home with their families complaining about their own tab. So riddle me this… How am I supposed to get the funds from the bank and who is going to deliver them to you? Even if I do miraculously manage to get it there, no one is around to open the damn envelope.
Every two weeks I get my paycheck and go through the same arduous process. First, I look at the amount of overtime I put in and I smile, daydreaming of all of the purchases I can make. The cartoon clouds appear over my head and read: “I can get two pairs of Jordan’s. We need a Simpson’s pinball machine for the apartment. Dinner is on me tonight.” Then reality sets in and the clouds pop. I start to mumble to myself: “Rent is due. It was twelve degrees this month so gas is double. Look like its Noodles ah la Cup for dinner.”
Moving forward, I have plans in the works for these dreadful bills. I will remove the numbers from all the houses in the neighborhood that signify addresses. I am going to purchase a viscous pit bull and house him next to my mailbox so that the mailman cannot deliver any bills. Better yet, I will relocate at the end of every month. Who am I kidding? It’s impossible to avoid the monthly drudgery. I should just surrender for they will catch me no matter what. I have online billing.
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