I just got an automated phone call, the kind where a disembodied voice mangles my last name almost as completely as something with a central nervous system, the kind I usually ignore because they always involve phrases like "overdue" or "legal action".
Today's installment wasn't any better. I pressed the phone to my ear just in time to hear a monotone voice repeat "Hello" three times before soullessly informing me that my bank account was overdrawn.
That final, fateful debit charge, the one that shoved my balance into the red? A $4.25 McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwich.
I'm pretty sure that I heard the robot judging me when she gave the one-sided recount of the purchase that sent my net worth into the negative numbers and it didn't brighten my spirits to shout "YEAH, WELL AT LEAST I HAVE ARMS" before throwing my phone into the sofa cushions. Usually it does.
Let's ignore, for a moment, that I couldn't scrape together enough change to pass through the drive-through window and had to sign a receipt for my square-shaped mistake. You know what really sent that sandwich crawling back up my esophagus? The $35 overdraft charge that BB&T gave me as an after-dinner mint.
I don't recall the last time I paid $39.25 for a meal, if I ever have, but I sure as hell wish it hadn't been served in a cardboard box.