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To Whom It May Concern:
Hello. I’ll start off with a disclaimer. I too have worked customer service for a credit card company. It was my job to answer requests for credit cards in a call center. Before that lovely 4-month stint in a germy shared cubicle, I doubted the existence of Heaven or Hell. Midway through, however, I was a firm believer that the latter existed. Not the variety of hell where evil souls get poked by a scrawny white guy’s pitchfork for eternity. No, I’m talking about the hell-on-earth variety. In a nutshell, working for a credit card company is like pouring salt into a wound, listening to fingernails scratch across a blackboard, or watching a drunken frat boy lurch into a bush after failing miserably at beer pong. In a word, it’s bad. So, whoever is reading this letter should not take my words as a direct affront. I feel your pain. When the economy improves I hope you can remove yourself from the belly of the beast and find a better job. A job where your bosses are not heartless, bloodthirsty pieces of vampire shit. I wish the best for you. I really do.
Having said that, let’s get to the matter at hand. During my time in graduate school I accrued some credit card debt. Let’s face it, by “some” I mean a lot. To my credit, I made my payments and 95% of the time the amount I paid exceeded my minimum payment. Looking back at my APRs—which ranged anywhere from 16-19%—sickens me. I have vowed never to go back and calculate how much money I paid in interest because, well, I’m not good at math, and more importantly, it would drive me to vomit on the very computer that I am typing on. Some of the debt was due to my own dumbassery and some was due to necessity—I had to make my bills somehow. Regardless of how or why I racked up that much money on one stupid card, it clearly is what it is. I’m not here for sympathy or to make excuses. The fact of the matter is that I paid my balance in FULL—and yes, the word “ouch” comes to mind—in January. I even checked back at my statement weeks later to ensure that I had not missed anything, that my card was actually paid off and that my nightmare was over. (Looking at the $0 balance was nothing short of lovely, by the way.) So imagine how I felt when I logged into my account today to check on a charge I made for work, only to find late fees and interest fees. When I called to ask about these charges, I was informed that I was billed for the interest that accrued during that final month before I paid my account in full. Well, isn’t that just fucking phenomenal. It’s not enough that I pay 16-19% interest for 3 years or that I’m one of the people who actually pays her bills on time. Oh no, just as I’m free and clear to walk away from this nightmarish corporate cluster fuck, I’m yanked backwards. Greedy bastards have taken too much of my money already and now someone is demanding more? What do they want next, my eggs? How about my kidney? Perhaps they’d prefer my still beating heart, freshly ripped from my chest? Hmmm? The person I talked to on the phone said that she would wave some of the charges, but not all of them. This is not sufficient. I’ve already paid enough. At the very least I’ve put enough money in some executive’s pocket to aid in the installation of a fancy new door on his/her estate in the Hamptons. Cut me some slack.
I am frustrated by these on-going antics. Enough is enough. You know that feeling when you stub your toe on a piece of furniture—I mean really stub the shit out of it? You hop around, not sure whether you should crumple into a ball while wailing like a small child, or if you should punch the piece of furniture in protest—as if it were the ottoman’s fault. Or how about when you get a little overzealous with your favorite ice cream? It’s all fun and games until the sweet, creamy goodness is overtaken by throbbing pain that shoots between your eyes. For about 10 seconds it feels like your face is going to split open and you’re about to die a painful mint chocolate chip death. Then, just as quickly as the throbbing began, it subsides. In sum, dealing with bank of america (sic) is like ordering a shot of ice cream headache with a stubbed-toe back. Just when the pain goes away, WHAM! You get nailed again…and this time the pain lingers. All I’m asking is for one small break, then GO AWAY. I’m ready for my headache to go away now so I can finish my ice cream. Thank you.
Warmest Regards
Janel
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