$80
I do believe it's you, really. And, how I see it, you've just communicated what I'm worth to you and what my value to you is priced at.
I reached out to you a week ago in the weirdest of ways, after... I don't know... 15 plus years, was it? I did it to assess if I should keep you on as a friend on that platform. I poured a bit into what I wrote, and received near nothing in ways of a response from you. You acknowledged what I wrote, but that's all. I even asked how you've been or what's been going on with you. Nothing. It's now a week later, and you write that you're in a pickle. You then attempt to voice call me, to which I left the site, and somehow it went over to ring on my cellphone. I knew what it was going to be. A couple of hours later, I check back and there's a written message. You want eighty bucks from me.
It's not the money. In fact, I wouldn't just give you eighty dollars, I don't have it, but I do have a hundred. I could have given you a shitload more, even. It's the approach. It's the gall. It's not responding to what I poured out last week, but instead considering that eighty dollars is worth making me feel uncomfortable. Any connection we ever might have had is worth only eighty dollars to you. It would have been so much better if you just never acknowledged what I wrote to you, last week, than this. Using me, making me feel used. What the hell is eighty dollars really going to buy you, anyway? Nothing is worth as little as eighty dollars... except, apparently, our acquaintanceship.
I reached out to you a week ago in the weirdest of ways, after... I don't know... 15 plus years, was it? I did it to assess if I should keep you on as a friend on that platform. I poured a bit into what I wrote, and received near nothing in ways of a response from you. You acknowledged what I wrote, but that's all. I even asked how you've been or what's been going on with you. Nothing. It's now a week later, and you write that you're in a pickle. You then attempt to voice call me, to which I left the site, and somehow it went over to ring on my cellphone. I knew what it was going to be. A couple of hours later, I check back and there's a written message. You want eighty bucks from me.
It's not the money. In fact, I wouldn't just give you eighty dollars, I don't have it, but I do have a hundred. I could have given you a shitload more, even. It's the approach. It's the gall. It's not responding to what I poured out last week, but instead considering that eighty dollars is worth making me feel uncomfortable. Any connection we ever might have had is worth only eighty dollars to you. It would have been so much better if you just never acknowledged what I wrote to you, last week, than this. Using me, making me feel used. What the hell is eighty dollars really going to buy you, anyway? Nothing is worth as little as eighty dollars... except, apparently, our acquaintanceship.