How to max out your credit card and get away with it (part 1)


SONY DSCHow to Max out your Credit Card… and get away with it,

By Terry Scott Bond



“Nothing is real… everything is fake… Especially hard currency.”





Last night, after reviewing my bank account, I realized I didn’t care about money anymore.  This is a true story.  I should start with that.  I should really also start with I don’t care; if you knew how much I didn’t care you would be scared.  That is sort of some poetry that I wrote.  I hardly write, but I have to write about this one night.  So here goes…


All right.


Everyone was telling me they were broke.  No money.  Fucking pansies-they had no money, everyone had no money, I thought.  Not even for coffee at the cafe.  This is a fact.  Know this.  They told me to watch my bank account!  All those wiser and older than I-“save your money”, they said.  You know act like a fucking adult with responsibilities.  Get a job, and like it.  Wait!  Don’t like it, just get a job that can pay the bills, so you can live.  Everything that I’ve done in my life has been planned by others, all those accomplishments-the debt, the regret, and a bunch of the loss.  I always have people plan my vacations; I pay and such, they make the itinerary.  I just go.  I am a monarch, royalty, sort of.  I’m smart.


An aside:  Latent effect is an incredibly powerful effect.  It may bite you in the ass, but it has me sitting here comfortably.


Back to the story:  Take care of your money, watch out for debts, and avoid it at all cost, they would say.  I thought if a bank entrusted me to a credit card with a credit line of $10,000.00, well then that was their own damn fault.  I now own the plastic which is connected to their cash.




The other night, I thought I’d test it out.  I walked outside.  I walked down the street to the bar.  The sun was out, so it wasn’t really exactly night.  However, I would consider it nighttime now that I am nearing 30, at 26 years of age, and it was past 5 PM.  I had a beer or two in my mind.


I thought of how I was broke.  How I had no money.  How my debt didn’t matter because a dollar was debt anyway.


Anyhow, I walked into the first bar and started a tab, Nye’s Polonaise. I ran wild I sat with that one beer for about 20 minute and I thought of my next drink.  After that one beer I told the bartender to make me the fanciest drink that he could make.  The place was dark.  The lights were dim.  At this moment I realized that a person only (probably) lives one life, so I needed to treat myself for all of the misfortunate in this one special life.  Cheers, right?!


I owed myself.  This was owed to me.


He poured, mixed, and poured.  Spoons and elbows all over the place and in the air.  A splash of this and that, little ice; more booze for my tummy.  He looked at me as if he needed something, I pointed at the card.  He said all right buddy.  Then he reached below the counter and grabbed his finest drink. I drank it down.  It tasted about as good as the Grain Belt before, not much too it, but the bill was a piece.   Holy shit!  If I was worried about money I would have been a little stressed at this point, but you read the first part. After he slid my card in the register he hung the long slip of paper in the air-a waste of resources if you ask me-and he asked me to sign at the bottom.  A spool of toilet paper unrolled with some print, this was a hyperbole rather than a bill.  There were little black dots here and there, apparently numbers which meant something.  I couldn’t decipher these etchings in low light.  They mattered not likewise.

There must have been gold flakes in that drink because my tab had set me back one tenth of what I started with…. Fuck, I thought.  I would have to do this at least ten more times (100 more times we find out later, but who is counting) tonight, and still I had to make it to a job that didn’t pay me in the morning, the serendipitous situation of which befell.  Like wow.  I sat on the cold red leather barstool by myself and the mirror, signed the tab, tipped 20 percent-to be fair I should have tipped him 30 for dealing with my pitiful ass-and I exited through the front door.


(Let me clarify, when I say one tenth I mean around $100.00 for two drinks.  Which means one/one thousandth of what I had to work with.  Mathematically I was wrong, and I figured this out after I got over the hangover.  Hence one hundred more times tonight.)


I thought of my previous student loans and how I had spent those on CDs, alcohol, and rent, or anything I wanted actually.  It was an amazing feeling.  Fleeting, but who cares?  We will all die some day.  Why not live our lives? 


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks:
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