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He opens the trunk of the car and takes out the globe containing my credit card debt. “‘Sfuckin heavy,” he says, mock staggering. He holds it up close to his ear, hears the whispers—“oygh,” he screws up his face in mock disappointment, “you spent it on girls?”—then listens closer. “These aren’t even…these girls are your friends?” I nod. His face changes to a look combining disgust and incredulity. He wants to ask if they’re hot but he’s not sure how I’ll respond. Finally he shrugs and says: “‘Syour money.”
spudpuppy
cathogen
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