For you, the dress code is casual.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

A Letter to An Asshole

Dear Asshole:

I hope you’re having a great weekend. You should be-- you’re up at least $60 from last weekend, not counting the loose change and bus passes.

You found my wallet last Sunday night, within 15 minutes of my dropping it, somewhere in the kilometre between my store and my house. You picked it up, you cleaned it out, and you’ve presumably tossed it into a garbage can.

I say presumably, because I’ve no fucking idea what you’ve done.

All I know is, it’s not with me.

In case you missed the memo, Asshole, here’s how it’s done. You find a wallet, you pick it up, you look around, you coyly remove a little cash for a finders’ fee, and if you’re in a store or on the street by a store, you turn it in. If not, you throw it in a fucking mailbox.

Why? Because I could give a fuck about the money. Yeah, it’s tightened my spending considerably this week, and I'd have dealt, but the loss of all my ID? A major goddamned hassle, one I coincidently can’t afford.

Now, I could blame it on myself for not ensuring it was more secure in my bag.

But I feel a fuck of a lot better blaming you. After all, you broke the fucking code, you selfish little shit.

Happily, though, I do still believe in karma. I only wish I would be there to see you get yours.

With disgust, truly,
A Scribe Called Steff.

* * *

(And to you people out there who work retail, when you find ID or a wallet or anything, spend five minutes of your life looking the person up in the phonebook. When it’s you getting the call, you’ll know how awesome it feels. Unfortunately, not something I’m familiar with this week.)

* * *

And because it says everything I'm thinking about tonight when I should be enjoying a Saturday night, I'm reposting an older posting right here. Called "Money":

All I can think about today is money.

Not having it. Wanting it.

Wondering where it all went.

Wondering what I need to do to get my life where I want it to be. Whether it means selling out.

Cutting and running from a good gig to a real gig with real money. Working for the man on the side of working for the man.

Wondering why I spend money on stupid things that don't add to my life.

Wishing I had a little more discipline.

Being glad summer's here and more can be done for free or cheap.

Thinking a sugar daddy sounds like a good plan. Wishing my pride and integrity could look the other way so I could sell my morality for the best pice.

Wondering who the hell came up with the value system that says my time is worth X amount per hour, and when the hell I signed that.

Wishing I didn't feel this want.

Having no one to blame but myself. Knowing it. Yet, still. (Ed. Note: Except I can now blame Asshole. That's nice.)