PAYDAY SYNDROME (a short story)

I wake up to an email from Bank of America.

Normally, this is an email that I either:

A) delete

or

B) ignore with dread and despair.

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But today is different. Because today, this particular email marks a monumental bi-weekly experience which can only be summed up with two words.

Two words that bring such elation, such satisfaction, such pure unadulterated JOY that just typing them brings an involuntary flutter of happiness to my heart.

I’m talking about..

DIRECT. DEPOSIT.

It’s Friday and more importantly, I just got paid bitches.

I get ready with a smile. I actually do my hair. This is rare as I work with a bunch of women and gay guys so my desire to impress them usually hovers around “maybe next week” and “HAHAHA right”. But today is different. Because today, the world is my oyster. I don’t know what that means. But regardless, it doesn’t matter, because my hair is direct reflection of temporary and seemingly infinite wealth.

Today, I’m not making my normal liquid nitrogen coffee pot either. Nope, I think I’ll feed a major corporation 4 dollars and 50 cents for a LARGE (that’s right folks!) skinny vanilla latte. And yes, I would like an extra pump of vanilla, thanks. Throw in a questionably “nutritious” protein bar too. Here’s my card. Swipe that shit.

And you know what else?? I need some stamps! And some gum. Oh there’s a 50 cent surcharge for not making the 5 dollar limit? Psh, little Indian man what do I look like? ….Poor? LAUGHABLE.

…But ok, how much for those taquitos that spin in the machine and have questionably “edible” meat in them? Yeah. Throw one of those suckers in as well. Normally, I’m a vegetarian for economical and health-related reasons but today, this girl is getting some MEAT. Or whatever is in this thing. Mostly cheese. Down.

I’m at work now. The sun is shining indoors guys. People are like yo bro it’s a summer Friday let’s eat food together in public and I’m like bitches, ain’t no thang. We are all on the “just-got-paid” direct deposit high together. It’s kind of like adderall but instead of cramming for a test you’re like hell yeah I can afford egg whites on my omelet even though it makes zero sense as to why I’m paying for something without the yolk-element for two dollars more. Irrelevant.

ANYWAY.

I’m filling up on gas and getting a car wash and I’m also like oh hey Whole Foods, don’t mind if I do. So I park my gassed up, glorious sparkling beast of a Orange Honda in their parking lot which normally would be referred to as “THE LEVEL ABOVE HELL” but today, I’m like all you crazy gay men and bouchey housewives can totally have a catch-up OMG HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVA convo right in the middle of the sidewalk. I got money, therefore I got time. Ok, enough chit-chat. Move before I make you fashion-forward road kill.

And I’m inside at the buffet (Side note: Whole Foods pumps weird air into their stores, thus forcing you to think it’s ok to buy 16 dollars worth of vegan gluten free acai kale burgers) and you’re like wait how did I even get over here? I was just going to buy another over-priced coffee. But whatev. i got money in the bank, and that mac and cheese looks DANK. And all of a sudden, you’re at the check out line and you’re like WTF dude why is this 18 dollars!? What did I put in my recyclable 100% compost brown paper carton? (Side note 2: This is referred to as BUFFET LINE BLACKOUT, BEWARE) But once again guys, it’s totally chill. I came here with monetary purpose. And I will prevail.

Also, calories don’t count on pay day. Didn’t you know that? Uhhhh, I know that because usually they involve brunch, day-drinking and impromptu ice cream purchases which include (but are not limited to) waffle cone AND Nutella. Also, nachos. But if you don’t think I look like a million bucks while also being the picture of health well then you clearly don’t know me.

I go to sleep tonight with love in my heart for all of mankind and the knowledge that tomorrow is Saturday and if I want to, I can and will do it all over again. At least until Sunday when I’m brought back to reality by an email from my good frenemy Bank of America, reminding me that my money, much like youth, and Amanda Byne’s Sanity… is fleeting. And thus, the payday Midas touch must come to a sad Monday morning close where I stumble out of bed with my hair looking like a creature and my disposition slightly less sunny.

But that’s Monday guys. Which is THREE (count it) WHOLE DAYS AWAY. And in between now and then, I have a quick therapy session with my good friend CHIPOTLE WITH EXTRA GUACAMOLE PLEASE and DO YOU HAVE THESE SHOES IN MY SIZE?

And that’s your leftovers from friday for the day kids.

M

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One thought on “PAYDAY SYNDROME (a short story)

  1. Kyle Millard says:

    I subconsciously subvocalized? this article with Aziz Ansari’s stand up voice in my head. Fucking awesome.

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