I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
You know, after a huge Thanksgiving meal, I like to recline on a La-Z-Boy and pop the top off an nice, smooth turkey gravy flavored soda pop. I then like to barf forcefully into a five gallon pail I keep on hand after gagging on turkey gravy flavored soda pop.
After choking on turkey gravy flavored soda pop, I then like to start decorating the Christmas tree. But, not just any Christmas tree: a skunk scented Christmas tree! I'm sick and tired of the traditional smell of pine wafting through the house. This year, I want to take in snootfuls of concentrated skunk pheremones. Oh, Christmas tree, Oh, Christmas tree, your odor is disgusting.
Finally, I like to unwind by buying any of the Top Ten Worst Toys for all the brats in the neighborhood. You know, having just read that list, I think it would be fun to come up with some fictional toys that would be bad Christmas sellers. Let's try, shall we?
-- Scathing Herpes Barbie (now featuring more pustules)
-- Don't Ask, Don't Tell G.I. Joe
-- The Cat In The Hat. . . In Heat
-- Professor Jake's Fun Box Full 'O Sharp Pointy Things That Are Easily Swallowed
-- Big Daddy G's Pimp Action Figure (now with ho slappin' backhand)
-- Bathtub Meth Starter Kit
Okay, folks, your turn.
Nud. Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud Nud. Nud. Nud. Nud. Nud. Nud.
Well, Melissa is winding down her semester, which means a lot of homework and a lot of studying, and a lot of me not seeing her because having me staying with her would mean a lot of sexual distraction, so I stayed in Rochester all weekend.
Melissa is finally to the point where she understands we don't have to see each other during every free moment of our lives. Last year, during the early stages of our relationship, she would constantly drive down to Rochester, which was fine, but it threw my weekly routine all out of whack. Now, we basically just try to hook up as best we can on the weekends, and that has worked out wonderfully. Sure, we miss each other from time to time, but we also understand that we're trying to achieve certain goals in our respective lives. She wants to graduate college in two years and be an interior designer, while I want to build up enough job experience to eventually be able to transition to a writing capacity that is more entertaining than high technology. Some day, our goals will mesh, but until then, we have what we have, and we're surprisingly happy.
That, and we call each other whenever Most Extreme Elimination Challenge comes on and we laugh ourselves senseless. Seriously, that show is the shit.
Right you are, Ken.
Indeed.
So, I had an entire weekend all to myself, which hasn't happened in, like, forever. I took advantage of the situation by catching up on basically a year of sleep. Friday night, I went to bed at 11 p.m., and I awoke at 2 p.m. Saturday. Saturday, likewise, I went to bed at 11 p.m., and awoke at 2 p.m. Sunday. That's 30 hours of sleep over two days. I think I'm going into hibernation or something. Whatever the case, it was a luxurious weekend of slumber.
And I had some pretty trippy dreams, too. I think that, since I was determined to sleep so much, my mind made up for the down time by seeing how creative it could get. In one sequence, I found myself putting on a flight uniform as a pilot for the Rebel Alliance. Luke Skywalker even helped zip me up! Then, I found myself in the cockpit of an X-Wing, where I realized, to my horror, that I had no idea how to pilot such a craft. I was sooooo going to crash into the Death Star! Noooooo. . . cut to next dream. In that dream, everyone was Kung-Fu fighting. I can't remember if there was a segue into this dream or not, but there I was, sitting in Buffalo Wild Wings, playing trivia and drinking a beer, when suddenly a brawl broke out, with me in the middle. And, I have to say, I was really holding my own, without spilling my beer or anything, when suddenly I found myself riding in a car going down the highway, except I was in the backseat, and there was NO DRIVER. I actually have that kind of dream an awful lot. I wonder what Freud would say.
When I wasn't sleeping, or totally vegging out in front of the television on Sunday during a marathon of Most Extreme Elimination Challenge, I did actually try to accomplish things. For example, I went out and purchased a birthday gift for Melissa. It was HUGE, and kind of spendy, and I almost bought one for myself, but the store only had one in stock, which was probably a good thing, because there was no way I could have transported two of them in my car. I then went to Best Buy, where I bought ink cartridges which are, I believe, the one remaining commodity in the computer world that insists on costing way damn more than they should. Come on, it's INK for crying out loud. It shouldn't require the taking out of a loan.
Back in college, I did some experimenting (no, not THAT way) with ink cartridges. I tried one of those frip-frapping ink refilling kits. I tried using that kit a grand total of three times, and each time I succeeded in spritzing ink everywhere BUT into the damn cartridge. My hands looked like those of a coal miner, and so did my shirt, and pants, and face, and socks, and genitals. Okay, not the genitals. But, the lesson was learned: ink cartridge refilling kits are simply NOT worth the effort or the money saved. Oh, and plus, in the event of a successful refill, it would take about fifty sheets of paper before the cartridge actually printed out anything other than a bunch of ink driplets. Page after page of what appeared to be braille. Never. Again.
I also finally weakened and bought Star Wars Jedi Knight: Jedi Academy. It was only a matter of time. I've beaten every Jedi Knight PC game going all the way back to the version that required booting from a DOS prompt. This line of games just refuses to disappoint. I spent several hours Saturday night entranced in front of my computer. The game taps into that portion of my mind that always wanted to BE IN the Star Wars movies, that little tyke who thought it would be awesome to actually have a light saber, and ride a Ton-Ton, and use the Force to move shit around. Well, now I CAN, albeit through the medium of a computer. Suffice it to say, this game will be my little nightly addiction for some time to come.
Winter is now officially here in Minnesota. I know this because my car doors were frozen shut Sunday night, and I also had to pour hot water on my lock. I also know this because I went for a five mile run Sunday night and the return route into the wind almost froze my nose off and made my teeth hurt. We didn't get much in the way of snow down here in Rochester, a slight dusting basically, but freezing rain Saturday night more than made up for that. I hate scraping my windshield, and on Saturday night, there was enough ice on my car to glaciate most of the Sahara, so I simply opted to turn on my car and allow the defrost to work its magic. I took the house key off the ring and went back in to warm myself indoors. However, I accidently left my house key in the house, even though I DID remember to lock the door. Poop.
There's something deeply humiliating about locking yourself out of your own house. It's like you don't even trust yourself. Nope, you're not worthy to come back in, sorry. Thankfully, I still had my car running, so I just opted to drive around running errands until my roommate got home.
I hate winter. But I love Kelly Monaco. I wish there was a nude Kelly Monaco. Kelly Monaco naked would be great. Mmmmm, Kelly Monaco.
