“Mom, Dad…I’m broke again.”

After a fun weekend out partying in Toronto — that consisted of many vodka crans, being accosted by bottle service girls, a couple of Minions and an expensive Uber to the club — the following Monday, I decided to check up on my bank account to see how she was doing.  When I did, my bank account was not okay, it was on the verge of death.  She needed a medic and STAT.

I could not remember the last time I had seen such a number so low in my bank account.  I did a double-take, but no, my money was gone, it had disappeared.  In my sheer denial, I decided to scroll through the transactions to see if I had been a victim of credit card fraud.

Nope.

I check my chequing account to see if it had been tampered with.

Nope.

I could already hear my mother yelling at me, as she had given me about $200 a couple of days ago when I visited home and I could hear my dad telling me for the umpteenth time to "get a job".  I knew I couldn't face them on the phone or having to say for at least 20 minutes "I know, I'm sorry" or "I don't know what happened" or my favourite "being a human in this economy is hard".

So instead of calling my parents respectively to give them the grave update of my fallen bank account, I created a group chat with the both of them and texted them that I was broke again.

They both left me on "read".

Maybe they've had enough of me?

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