I told you about the letter asap. I've spent the last week and a half in constant, severe pain, literally gushing blood every time I stand up for more than about 30 seconds, in and out of the ER repeatedly, puking, aching, cramping, and bleeding so much that the most recent ER trip required an IV to keep me conscious. I CAN'T fucking check the mail every damn day, I can barely even leave the bed, let alone leave the apartment. I had - apparently foolishly - assumed that the people who WERE checking the mail and sorting through it were actually capable of doing so. I have now learned better and will insist on seeing the mail, ALL the mail, myself...

...I write the damn number out repeatedly, I tell you every possible bit of information, I get this information to you as quickly as I can, and what happens? You treat me like I'm stupid, like I somehow purposely didn't tell you about this until now, like it's MY fault that YOU have some ridiculous amount of overdrawn checks and haven't been showing up for credit counseling or whatever the fuck it is they expected. Yell at your father, likely he's the reason it happened; yell at Kate and Rhia, they're the ones checking the mail; yell at yourself, for being so fucking rude...

...but don't fucking yell at me, don't you EVER dare scold me for something that I have no control over and that is YOUR responsibility. It's not my fault you didn't think to fill out a change-of-address once you got back to Boston. It's not my fault your credit is fucked up, not that it wouldn't amuse me if it was, but yeah. Hell, the money you put on the card is still untouched, not a business in town seems willing to accept the damn thing.

And while I'm at it, do you know how frustrating it is to be trying, seriously trying, to communicate with you damn near every day, and to get 'hihihihihihi' and then nothing, nothing at all, unless I have some sort of news like this? I asked you four different questions earlier, got no response to any of them, but the moment I mention your mail, wham, you've suddenly got this huge attention span and plenty of time to type.

I'm going to try and calm down, I'm having enough problems already, I don't need to add more seizure symptoms to the list.

Just... no. Right now, I really can't cope with being the one you vent at. I'm sorry, Puppy. You know that normally I'm quite willing to be there for you, but I can't right now. I just don't have the strength.