Two weeks ago, I found, to my shock and disbelief, that my checking account had been bloated to a balance of $650,000 instead of the usual few hundred. It was a teller error, which could not be corrected for five whole days, including a weekend. Needless to say, I was suffering from wicked bouts of depression about it; wallowing in the moral dilemma involved with knowing you’re a poor piece of shit, and having access to over half-a-million dollars.
After I wrestled with the notion that I didn’t want to really flee the country, transfer funds to offshore bank accounts and become a crazy, filthy rich recluse, I took the advice of Synthesis schemester team Bill Fishkin and Cayle P. Hunter and applied for a credit card while I stood on paper as a wealthy man.
I went with Capitol One’s Platinum card, and noted my current bank balance. I was then instructed that I would have to wait 7-10 days for confirmation. “I’m fucked,” I thought. Surely, by the time they checked out all my information, I’d be in the red and they’d tell me to go kick several rocks. BUT, today I got an email confirmation welcoming me to the Capitol One family with a spankin’ new credit card! And before you regale me with tales of woe about credit debt and whatnot, keep something in mind: To be a 27-year-old manboy with ZERO debt at this point is pretty good. I’m ready for debt; or at the very least I’m sick of being SUPER poor.
Long story short: Bank Of America, thank you for fucking up royally and allowing me the opportunity to join the ranks of those who spend money they absolutely do not have. I owe you one.