Dear big man in your big chair in your big office on the top floor in the corner of that floor,
You know something? Feck ouf. Not in a mean way, but I’m plain sick of you. I accepted the terms, I know. I’m the one who readily signed the goosh derned contract. I knew how much I had to pay. But this interest business, it’s getting to be a bit much. And you knew that. And you knew I didn’t. I wanted money then, but I don’t want that money anymore. Well I guess I still want it, but it’s gone, so what’s the prickly point. And still you want me to pay you back. Even more than you gave me to begin with. What a glaring omission my brain allowed me to make at the onset.
It’s like when you pay a restaurant bill and the server expects you to pay more than the amount on the receipt, and if you don’t pay a high enough amount more than on the slip the manager will come over and essentially threaten you until you’re embarrassed enough to pay far more than what’s written on the slip and by that point you’re just glad to be getting out of there alive.
So it seems you’d like to receive some money, in regular increments, until I’m dead. Well I want that too. Just because past me was irresponsible, that’s no reason for it to be acceptable to punish present me, while future me is sitting there biding his time until he comes to fruition, having next to no idea of the goobledy garbage he’ll have to deal with when he becomes present me.
I see you, I picture you in your office, laughing like a maniac, somewhat maniacally, as the money rolls in. What you’re doing has to be illegal, according to the ancient texts¹, but I don’t know how to prove it. You’re up there, drinking whiskey but never getting drunk. I want your job. What do you even do? I have a job, but even with it I’m down here in the pit, and there’s no climbing out.
¹ old religious books, not T9 messages