I’m not there…

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An open letter to the jerk who is draining my bank account somewhere over in Russia:

Hey, cut it the fuck out, alright? I mean I appreciate the way that you kept me safe from any wayward Black Friday splurging on crap I didn’t need, but while the people at my bank branch are very helpful and pleasant, I don’t feel like spending days hunched over their monitors with them trying to figure out just what hell you’ve been up to, and assuring them that no, I didn’t spend Thanksgiving day in Moscow nor did anyone I know, so I really shouldn’t be responsible for all the little ATM transactions you’ve been posting from there. I also don’t appreciate nights of anxiety wondering which of my previous financial blunders has caught up with me now. I admit that it was kind of nice to find out that the paranoid flash I always have when one of these money problems crops up was actually true for once and that it was your malfeasance that was causing my staggering negative balance, instead of my own ineptitude. But that pleasure was short lived, so just stop it.

Love ya turdburglar,


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