Well, I don’t even know where to start with your trifling ass. You took my money – the money my mother gave to me – and you spent it on doors – car doors that your cousin said, and I quote: “would pay for themselves” unquote – before you thought I’d find out! AND THEN, you told my friend Amy that you were planning a trip, with my money – looking fancy like you were taking care of me, but it was me taking care of you the entire time – even when your cat got sick, and let’s not forget how I helped you out with six months of electric bills, groceries, and Netflix without so much as a “thank you” or a peep from your cousin who – let’s not forget also owes me for last February but that’s between us – your cousin who you said you wouldn’t be hanging out with anymore and then WHO – WITHOUT CONSULTING ME – MOVED ONTO OUR COUCH.

And don't sit there looking at me like you don't know what I'm talking about, because you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about, and that's the problem with you – you always know exactly what you're doing when you're doing it – but then when it's time to answer for it – suddenly everybody's confused – suddenly nobody remembers anything, suddenly I'm the one who's making a big deal out of something that YOU did with YOUR hands and YOUR little cousin's big mouth, and I am SICK of it. I am sick of being the only person in this entire situation who seems to understand that money is not something that just comes back because you said it would – money is not a cat – money is not going to get sick and then magically recover because you took it to the vet – money is not going to curl up in the corner and wait for you to remember that you owe somebody: MONEY IS MONEY. And you had mine – my money – the money my mother gave to me. 

OH, AND, – and – and speaking of that cat, because since we're apparently going to talk about everybody else's problems before we talk about the one sitting right here in front of ME, I would like to know why I had to hear from Amy that the cat was feeling better. AMY. Not you. Amy. Amy, who has her own bills – Amy, who has never borrowed a single dollar from me in her entire life – Amy, who somehow manages to communicate with me about your cat's digestive situation more effectively than you manage to communicate with me about the several hundred dollars that walked out of my purse and into your cousin's filthy hands. I knew more about the fucking cat's bowel movements than I knew about where my money was going. Do you understand how humiliating that is? Do you understand that I had to sit there at brunch, eating an omelet that I paid for MYSELF, listening to Amy tell me that your cat was eating again – while I'm thinking, “well, isn't that wonderful, at least somebody in this family is getting fed and shitting on a regular basis.”

And don't laugh! Don't you dare laugh! because I saw that little thing you just did with your mouth. You think I'm being funny. You think because I'm talking about the cat and Amy and the omelet that somehow THIS whole thing has become a joke. Well, let me tell you something. I WAS FUNNY. I used to be funny – I used to be the kind of girl who could go out on a Friday night without having to look at the menu like I was reviewing a loan application – trying to figure out whether I could afford to have a good time or whether somebody at the table was about to turn dinner into a fucking episode of THE BEAR – I used to be able to order shrimp. SHRIMP. Not chicken, not the house salad, not some little bowl of soup that looks like something they rinsed out of a mop bucket, but shrimp – shrimp with the little sauce and the little lemon wedge and the little fucking everything – and I would not have to wonder whether you were going to look at me from across the table and ask, "baby, can you get this one? I'll get the next one." THE NEXT ONE WHEN? WHEN IS THE NEXT FUCKING ONE? IS THERE A FUCKING DATE? IS IT ON A CALENDAR? SHOULD I SEND YOU AN INVITATION? BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THE NEXT FUCKING ONE SINCE LAST FUCKING SUMMER AND THE ONLY FUCKING THING THAT HAS ARRIVED IS A TEXT MESSAGE FROM YOUR FUCKING COUSIN ASKING IF I STILL HAVE THAT TWENTY DOLLARS HE LEFT IN MY FUCKING CAR.

AND – another thing about your cousin, because I am not finished with your cousin, and frankly I don't know if I will ever be finished with your fucking cousin, because every time I think we have reached the end of your cousin – he’s like an infinite fucking glitch! – your fucking cousin turns out to have another fucking cousin, or another friend, or another business associate, or another person who is somehow entitled to a portion of my money despite having contributed absolutely nothing to my life except a series of increasingly unbelievable explanations! I want to know why your cousin is always around – I want to know why your cousin is in this house more often than your own fucking girlfriend – I want to know why I have to ask YOU whether your cousin is leaving – when apparently your cousin has a key, a drawer, a preferred bath towel, and some kind of diplomatic immunity that prevents anybody from asking him what he's fucking doing here. I come home from work, and there he is – I go to the kitchen, and there he is – I open the fucking refrigerator door, and somehow there is a half-eaten container of my yogurt with your fucking cousin's name slapped on top of the lid – which – to be frank – I don't understand because if your cousin has enough money to purchase a FUCKING label maker he certainly has enough money to purchase his own FUCKING yogurt. And you just say, "well that's just how he is." – HOW WHO IS? Who walks into another man's house, eats his girlfriend's food, borrows money from her, doesn't pay it back, and then gets to behave as if he's the fucking landlord? I would like to meet the person who decided that was an acceptable way to live, because I have some questions for him, too – I would like to see his credentials – I would like to see his references – I would like to know whether he has ever paid a bill on fucking time – whether he has ever had a bank account that wasn't in the process of being closed – whether he has ever looked at a woman and thought "perhaps I should not eat the last piece of her birthday cake, because she bought it with money she earned at her job, which she goes to every day, while I sit on this fucking couch watching a fucking documentary about fucking people who go to fucking work."!

And that fucking couch – oh. My. God. – No, you know what? – I have actually started to wonder whether this man is actually your cousin at all. Don't look at me like that – Do NOT look at me like that – I am asking a legitimate question. You keep saying "my cousin" as if that settles everything, as if the word COUSIN is a legal document – as if I am supposed to accept the existence of this man on the strength of a family relationship that nobody has ever adequately demonstrated or verified in ANY WAY what-so-ever.
Have I seen a birth certificate?
No.
Have I seen a family photograph?
No.
Have I met his mother?
No.
Have I met anybody who can verify that you and this man share even one grandparent?
No.
What I have seen is a man sleeping on our couch, eating my food, borrowing my money, and referring to your mother as "Miss Lisa," which isn’t even her fucking name!

WHATever – maybe he is your cousin – maybe he's your second cousin – maybe he's your cousin by marriage, twice removed – maybe he was adopted by somebody who married somebody who used to live next door to your aunt. Hell, I dunno – maybe he's a man you met at a bus stop six years ago who told you his name was Reggie, and you felt bad for him, and one night you said, "you can stay here," and the next morning he was sitting at your breakfast table asking if you knew anybody who could get him a good deal on car doors. Maybe he's just some man who wandered into your life with a duffel bag and a dream, and you have been too embarrassed to admit that you let him stay – I don’t know, and I don’t care because I have seen this man eat and IT IS NOT NORMAL in any way – fuck I have seen animals at the zoo make less of a mess while eating – I am really beginning to think that the reason you won't ask him to leave is because you are afraid of what he might say if he does – every time I mention the couch, you get this look on your face – every time I mention the fact that he has been here for months, you suddenly need to check something in the garage – every time I ask why he has a copy of your car keys, you tell me that I am being paranoid. PARANOID? I am not paranoid. I am observant. There is a difference: a paranoid woman imagines that a strange man has moved into her boyfriend's house – is eating her groceries – is spending her money – and is quietly operating a questionable automotive business out of the driveway. An observant woman notices that all of those things have actually happened.

And speaking of the driveway, I have a question about the business. THE BUSINESS – if you can even call it that! I want to know who registered it – I want to know the name of the company – I want to know where the office is – because it sure as fuck looks like the office is this driveway – I would like to know who is paying rent – I want to know whether there is a website – I want to know whether there is a business license – I want to know whether there is even a phone number customers can call, because at this point the only phone number that seems to be associated with this “en-ter-fuckin-prise” is my fucking phone-number; and the only people who call it are the people asking me when they can get their fucking money back. Oh yah that’s right – your cousin the entrepreneur! An entrepreneur! I would like to know what he has undertaken, because from where I'm standing all he has bothered to “undertaken” is to turn my boyfriend's couch into his own studio apartment – my refrigerator into his own food bank – my mother's gift into his own revolving line of credit – and two car doors into his own speculative financial instrument. If this is entrepreneurship, then I have been operating a multinational corporation every time I buy toilet paper! A business has expenses! Do you understand that because I sure as fuck understand that! A business has startup costs! I understand that, too. A business is also supposed to have some idea of how it intends to make money. You cannot just buy something, put it in a driveway, and then declare that you are now in the automotive industry! – if I buy a box of paper clips and put it on the kitchen table, I am not suddenly the CEO of fucking Staples – if I buy a toaster and put it in the living room, I am not the founder of a groundbreaking fucking breakfast technology company! And if your cousin buys two car doors with my money – the money that my mother gave to me – he is not a businessman! He is a man with two fucking car doors and a big fucking problem.

What even is the fucking business model? And don’t you dare say "he knows what he's doing" – HOW DOES HE KNOW? Who taught him? Where did he learn? Was there a seminar? Was there a workbook? Did he even watch a fucking video? Did somebody send him a fucking link? Because I would like to see the fucking video! I would like to see the man who stands in front of a whiteboard and explains to a room full of aspiring businessmen – no, sorry, “en-tre-pre-fucking-neurs” – that the key to success is to borrow money from your cousin’s girlfriend's mother, purchase a pair of used car doors, and then wait for the universe to recognize your contribution to the world of fucking commerce! And don't even try to tell me the doors are worth more now than they were when he bought them – don’t even try that again. Worth MORE? To whom? Who has offered to buy them? Who has come to this house and said, "my goodness, those are two magnificent doors! I must have them immediately for my fucking magnificent door collection!"? Has anybody made an offer? Has anybody called? Has anybody even stopped to look at them? Because I have driven past that driveway at least forty-two times, and those doors have not moved. They are sitting there like two enormous metal reminders of my own stupidity. Every time I leave this house, I see them. Every time I come home, I see them – I am beginning to feel that the doors are watching me, which is more than I can say for you! And I don't want to hear another word about resale value until I see a fucking sale. RESALE means you have to sell them again. That's the word. It's right there. RE. FUCKING. SALE. You have to sell them – you can't just keep them forever and call them an asset. By that logic, the bag of frozen peas in the freezer is an investment because I purchased it at a discount and intend to use it later. Hell, my winter coat is a fucking retirement account! – the kitchen curtains are a hedge against inflation! – the bottle of aspirin in the bathroom is a fucking pharmaceutical portfolio!

Now I am beginning to think that the couch is the real fucking business – maybe the doors are just a distraction – maybe the whole enterprise is a sophisticated operation in which your cousin pretends to be an automotive entrepreneur while quietly establishing permanent residency in somebody else's living room – maybe the doors are there to make it look like he's going somewhere. You see him in the driveway, moving a door from one side of the car to the other, and you think, "look at him, hard at work." But is he? Is he really? Or is he just rearranging the evidence? You do realize that DOORS MEAN NOTHING unless you have A ROOM. SOMEWHERE FOR THEM TO OPEN IN TO. DO YOU NOT EVEN REALIZE HOW DOORS FUCKING WORK? YOU MUST NOT BECAUSE at the end of the day the fucking doors are still fucking there – the car is still there – the business is still not making any fucking money, and somehow I am the one who has to hear that the project is moving forward. MOVING FORWARD? MOVING FORWARD TO WHERE EXACTLY? The driveway? The sidewalk? The curb? Because if this business has been moving forward for six months and it hasn't moved past the property line, I am not sure if we are actually looking at a business. I think we are looking at a hostage situation involving two car doors. And another thing I have noticed – which I wasn't going to mention because I was trying to be respectful of your family – is the way your cousin looks at my twin sister. Yes. YOUR COUSIN AND MY TWIN!

YAH, apparently the doors are a real conversation starter – apparently, a man can spend six months failing to establish a profitable business and still attract the attention of a woman if he stands next to a fucking car long enough! Maybe I have misunderstood the modern dating scene – maybe romance has changed – maybe women no longer want flowers or dinner or a man who can even pay his fucking bills – maybe what they want now is a felon looking THUMB MAN who can potentially identify the difference between a passenger-side door and a driver's-side door while standing in a driveway with no apparent destination.

And if the two of them ARE doing something behind my back, if there is something going on between your cousin and my twin sister – so help me GOD – I would like to know whether my money is involved. Because I swear to God, if I discover that my mother's money has somehow financed a courtship, I am going to lose. My. Fucking. mind. I am going to lose it so completely they will issue a fucking MISSING PERSONS ALERT before I am DONE WITH YOU, YOUR COUSIN, AND MY TWIN SISTER. I am going to be standing in this living room explaining the difference between a fucking loan and a fucking gift to a room full of people who have somehow managed to turn my bank account into a FUCKING community theater production. Did you buy her dinner? Did you use my money to buy her fucking dinner? Did you take her somewhere? Did you tell her you were working on a business? Did you tell her you were going to be successful? Did you tell her you were going to make a lot of money once the doors sold? Because if you did… IF YOU DID I would like to know whether you disclosed the fact that the initial capital came from me – that I have not received a single dollar in return – I would like to know whether she understands that the business she is apparently so interested in is currently being underwritten by a woman who has had to put strawberries back at the supermarket – and I would like to know why nobody in this fucking family can look me in the eye and tell me the truth – because that's what this is about now – it isn't just the fucking money – it is in the way everybody acts like I am the unreasonable one for wanting to know what happened to it – it is in the way you get defensive when I ask a simple fucking question – it is in the way your cousin suddenly becomes unavailable when I mention the word repayment – it is in the way my sister has started coming over at times when she knows I'm at work – it is in the way the doors remain in the driveway like a monument to the fact that I am apparently the only fucking person here who understands the relationship between fucking spending money and fucking having money – AND I am not asking for a miracle here – the time for that is long gone – oh no, I am not asking you to turn two car doors into a million fucking dollars – I am not asking your cousin to become The Fucking Monopoly Man overnight – HELL, I am not even asking him to become a competent businessman, because at this point I recognize that some things are beyond the reach of prayer – I am just – I am just asking for my fucking money. MY MONEY. The money my mother gave me – yah, that MONEY – the money she put in my hands because she wanted me to have a little security – the money she saved because she thought I deserved to have something that belonged to me – the money I was supposed to put away for a rainy day – and now here I am – standing in the middle of a financial-fucking-hurricane – looking at two car doors and a man on my couch who may or may not be related to you – while my own twin sister appears to be conducting some kind of inquiry into his fucking romantic availability. And YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN? You want me to sit here and speak in a reasonable tone – you want me to be understanding? You want me to remember that everybody makes mistakes? You want me to consider the pressures your cousin has been under? You want me to think about the difficulties of starting a fucking business? I UNDERSTAND ALL OF THAT. I understand that business is difficult. I have been running the business of keeping this household afloat for the past six months without a single day off – IN THE PAST SIX MONTHS I have apparently been dating you, subsidizing your automotive ambitions, feeding a mysterious man on my couch, and potentially financing an affair between that man and my own twin sister. I understand complications! I am living in a complication!

So let me ask you one last time: Where. Is. The. Fucking. Money?

Not the business plan. Not the cousin. Not the doors. Not the story about how everything is going to work out. Not the explanation about how you were going to surprise me with a trip. Not the promise that next month will be different.

THE MONEY.

Because my mother did not give me a business plan – lord knows she did not give me a cousin – she did not give me a set of car doors. She gave me money. Actual money! Money that was in my account, money that I could see, money that I could use, money that be-longed to me. And now it is gone. And I want it back. I want every dollar back. I want the money for the doors. I want the money for the electric bill. I want the money for the groceries. I want the money for the phone charger. I want the money your cousin owes me from February too. I want the money for the Netflix subscription that apparently entertained an entire household of fucking people who have never once offered to split the fucking cost. I want all of it. And if your cousin has spent it, then your cousin can find a way to earn it – if the doors haven't sold, then sell them – if the business isn't working, then close it – if the car isn't even his, then give the doors back to whoever owns the car – if he needs a job, then he can get a job – if he needs somewhere to live, then he can find somewhere to live, and if he is not actually your fucking cousin, then I would appreciate it if you stopped referring to him as your fucking cousin and started referring to him as what he is: a man who owes me money and has been sleeping on my couch without paying rent.

Because I am done financing this little operation – I am done being the bank – I am done being the investor – I am done being the emergency contact for a business that has no customers, no income, no office, no accounting system, and apparently no clear understanding of who owns the vehicle whose doors it has purchased – and I am especially done being the woman who has to explain to her own boyfriend that the money his girlfriend's mother gave to her is not a cousin fucking slush fund.

So sit there and look at me however you want. You can call your cousin. You can call my twin fucking sister. You can call the man who sold you the doors. You can call the bank. You can call Amy – since apparently Amy is the only person in this entire situation who can be trusted to relay information accurately – but somebody is going to tell me where my mother's money went, and somebody is going to give it back because if I have to go out into that driveway and start selling those doors myself, I WILL. I will put a sign on them – I’ll advertise them online – I’ll take photographs – I’ll write a little fucking description – I’ll answer every message from every fucking man who asks whether they're still available – I’ll meet strangers in parking lots if I have to – hell, I’ll learn the difference between a salvage yard and a scrapyard! – I will become the most knowledgeable woman in this city on the subject of used car doors. And when I sell them, I will take that money, and I will put it directly back into my account, where it belongs.

Do you understand me? Because I am not playing anymore. I am not playing about the money. I am not playing about the doors. And I am certainly not playing about your cousin.

Now tell me where the fuck my money is before I go out there and fucking rip those doors off that fucking car – foreclose on your cousin’s ass – and become the first woman in history to put an entire fucking industry into collections.