I hope you don’t mind my over familiarity, but during the many, many weeks of unrequited correspondence from me to you practically begging for the payment we agreed upon, I feel like we’ve grown close enough for us to toss around a couple of pet names.
Anyway, while we’re on the topic of tossing, toss pots and all things toss-related, let me diverge for a moment to discuss the matter of sucking, and how aptly you excel at this. When first we met, I thought of you as an accomplished, reputable businessman. Needless to say that your summation of me was likely the equivalent of ‘Word Monkey’ or ‘Typing Slave’, and that’s okay, because there are no real human beings when it comes to doing business- just suppliers and payers. And then, of course, there’s you. Precious, special, darling, little you. In case you have not yet choked on the sarcasm I’ve been plastering this rhetoric with, I’m implying that you are mentally challenged.
Just thinking back on the time we’ve spent together brings a whimsical smile to my face, or maybe it’s just a rage-ridden sneer. It’s hard to tell through the red mist. I remember when you first ‘hired’ me to deliver three items of work for a particularly personal occasion to you. At first, I couldn’t understand why you would hire a script writer to craft such intimate pieces of communication, but in our subsequent conversations, I found both your minimalist vocabulary and your abstract grammar quite illuminating. See, now I’m calling you an idiot. Keeping up? Super, I knew you could do it.
How I slaved over those scripts, keyboard clacking and fingertips chaffing, living only on shots of espresso and the occasional plate of food, and driven only by my need to please you- and to pay for a weekend away at the end of the year. It was a labour of love. Yes, okay, love of money. I would never have thought during those salad days of our relationship that you would so cruelly betray me after I delivered my work. Why, I asked myself, weeping in the rain, tearing at my shirt and beating my chest like the heroine in an ancient Greek tragedy, why would you spurn me and refuse my love (invoice) when I had so freely given you mine. In reality there was a little less weeping, far less rain and I simply ate a packet of biscuits in lieu of ruining a perfectly good shirt. Dear shit stain- can I call you shit stain? Please excuse my wanton use of over exaggeration. It’s almost like lying, except that it’s not. When you promised to pay me every week for 2 months, that was lying.
In the weeks we’ve spent apart, I have thought of you often. I find myself wondering what you do in between denying my payment and avoiding my phone calls. Do you look at the work I so faithfully delivered and think of me? Does it bring you pain to see my pain, and also my increasingly serious threats of legal action against you? I hope so. It makes me feel that we can still share something special with one another- apart from our impending court date, obviously.
If I can leave you with just one thought, it’s this. I miss you, numb-nuts. I miss chasing you for feedback and responding instantly to your inane requests and seemingly endless revisions. I miss trying to decipher your half-formed sentences and garbled debriefs, and, most of all, I miss the money you owe me. I only thank god for the forethought, and the signed contract, that ensures that, while I may be out of your mind, I’ll never be out of your financial obligations.
Yours in legally-binding credit,