And to Think I Was Rich When I Was Ten...

My phone died. And I don't mean the go-get-the-charger kind of death, but an actual strangled gasp ending in a communication-starved Stephanie.

Actually, it's the screen that has bitten the dust. The PHONE is fine, which I think might be worse. I haven't decided. Because see, I can receive calls, but not tell who they're from. I can get text messages, but not read them.

My mom and dad have been helpful and extremely unhelpful, respectively.

Mom: "Well, we have to get her another phone."

Dad: "Stephanie, you have to start taking responsibility and paying for your own things."

If I had run over the phone with the Kia or chucked it in the lake while on a Coca-Cola high, I could understand that. However, I haven't done anything wrong. I take care of my phone. This unfortunate situation is completely unrelated to my level of responsibility.

Again, however, I do understand where my dad is coming from. In the real world, we often have to pay for things that aren't our fault. HOWEVER AGAIN. I am broke. Beyond broke. I was broke BEFORE we went to Italy, and I spent the last dregs of my collateral on highly worth it and memorable souvenirs.

But now I believe I might actually have a negative number in my checking account {which, "lulz"ily enough, is honestly not my fault either}.

I am also expected to pay my parents $100 a month until I die to pay for my car accident. I do not have $100. I might have 80 if I scraped together all the cash I have around my room and in secret savings pockets, but even that wouldn't be enough and then I'd REALLY, REALLY be monetarily screwed.

I'm also going on my senior trip next week and it would be really nice if I could eat and do fun things. But I know that's not going to happen. Yeah, it's my senior summer. It's my senior trip. But I have no job and I got in a car wreck, so my life is now quite screwed and it's all my fault.

And now my phone screen has died and I have to figure that out also. Fml.

*sigh* There wasn't really a point to this post except to complain, I suppose. I'm looking for a job as we speak. I really, really, really, really, really don't want to work with food, but I guess it's time to stop being picky. Who cares if I can never eat again? At this rate I'm headed towards that anyway.

~Stephanie