You Owe Me $40, Bitch.

I love my iPod. It's my little personalized piece of heaven. It sounds good. It works in my car, in my house, and in my office. Even on a Big Wheel. Or a dinghy. Roller coasters, even. So when it goes missing I obsess about where I had it last and where it possibly could have gone. For this reason, I tend not to lose the shit I pay good money for. Like my car keys or sunglasses. Or an iPod.

But then you came along and fucked it all up.

I spent weeks looking for my lovely little music dispenser, to no avail - blaming it stolen by the cleaning lady of a Vegas hotel (I found solace in believing it was hocked for a cab ride with a lesbian hooker girlfriend, gambling, cheap booze, and an eventual double homicide of a couple mormons in Utah).

So I bit the bullet, reviewed my bank account, and verified I was unable to afford and therefore purchase a new iPod. Not that that stopped me.

After customizing the newer, more glorious unit and loading you, my dear, into the car to go to your overpriced daycare you said some of those magical words that make me want to go out for cigarettes and never come back.

"Hey, what's that?"
"Daddy's new iPod."
"Did you get that from my Dora backpack?"
Fuck you.
"No. Do you have one of these in your Dora backpack?"
"Yea, in my pink room!"
Fuck you.

After locating my bless-ed jukebox, I was prompted to return the newer, more glorious device to the store - minus a 15% "restocking fee" that the hairy fat cunt manager wouldn't refund because her shitty retail store is unable to make money competing with that Interweb thingy.

So the way I see it, you owe me $40.