Growing up, I used to tell people that my sense of humor came from my biological father; a humor drenched with sarcasm and dependent on boisterous storytelling. However, as I got older and gained just more sense in general, it became evident that this was so not where my humor came from.
Several months ago I was a hand model (a huge feat considering my hands and nails are about as picture ready as Freddy Kruger's), with the faithful belief that I would be paid handsomely for my endeavor. (The confusion as to why they hired me was quickly quelled when I arrived on set to discover that I would be portraying a refugee. Oh, phew, that's more like it!)
But a couple of months had passed whereby that handsome payment never quite made it into my unattractive mailbox; not the norm. So, I waited, and waited some more. My mother asking periodically about the check, perhaps in an effort to curtail any possible distraction from the nothingness that was consuming my calendar. "No, not yet. And I could really use that money," I kept saying. Finally, I phoned and inquired about it...turns out the check went out awhile back, but never made it to my new address.
Resolved. But not before my mother had something to say about it via email.
Nothing else, just this:
No more hand jobs without getting your money up front.