The Royal Bank is a Bunch of Cunts

The Royal Bank phoned again, today. They're really flogging that credit card, the one with the annual fee. I've got to hand it to the cunts--they've got a hell of a sales pitch. They make it sound like you haven't got any choice. Fait accompli, sort of thing. It's not "Would you like a new credit card"--it's "We're upgrading your card at the end of this month...so there!" Then, they launch into a three-minute spiel about the benefits of your new card. You can't interrupt the spiel. If you try, they just talk louder. Finally, when you're well sick of the whole thing, and hardly listening at all, they try and sneak the annual fee under the radar.

Sodding slickety buggers. Verging on con-artistry, that is. They never explicitly say your old credit card's being phased out, but, boy, do they imply it. They try to catch you unawares. They're like pickpockets on the street. They're a loathsome company, preying on the poor and the incautious. Mother said, just the other day:

"Ey, did you know the Royal Bank charges different interest rates?"

"What, for different cards?"

"No, for different people. For someone like you, who can't pay the entire balance every month, they charge the maximum. For people like us, it's much lower."

Lovely, that. Very humane.

(I'm just honked off because the novel's going badly today. The bank's a convenient target for my wrath: I started this nonsense, after all, in hopes of paying my Visa bill. It's a desperate plan. It probably won't work. But that doesn't mean I appreciate the bank trying to suck up more money, even as I scuttle to pay what I owe.)

I spent most of the weekend snoozing. Writing uses more energy than I thought it would. I should stop poking myself in the eye whenever I can't think of a word. I should stop poking myself in the eye, period. Too many things I should do. I'm weeks behind on e-mail. All my dishes are in the sink. There's a drift of feathers under the birdcage. The windows need washed, and the floor needs vacuumed. My closet door broke, and I can't snap it back on the track. The lint-trap on my dryer broke--I had it fixed, and it broke again. The toilet seat is loose. Everything breaks around here. Maybe it's me. Maybe I break things.

T.I.T.W. T.A.P. W.A.P.*

* I didn't actually SAY it--you know what. That thing I've been saying too much, just lately.