There’s another notice of foreclosure on my doorstep.
“FINAL NOTICE” it says, printed in big bold red ink.
That’s what they said last time

but I tear open the envelope… just in case.

At the top of the page:
“DO YOU REMEMBER EIGHTH GRADE?” it asks, printed in big bold red ink.
“WHEN YOUR BALANCE HIT ZERO?” it mocks, printed in big bold red ink.
“YOU THOUGHT YOU WOULDN’T MAKE IT THIS FAR.” it reminds, printed in big bold red ink.

“BUT HERE YOU ARE: FIVE FOOT FIVE POINT FIVE.

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE A GROWN-UP NOW.

“BUT YOU STOPPED GROWING TOO EARLY, DIDN’T YOU?

“TOO SHORT TO REACH THE TOP SHELF OR ACT LIKE AN ADULT.

“YOU SPENT ALL SUMMER CRYING OVER A GIRL.

“A STUPID DUMB FARAWAY MAGICAL ETHEREAL ANGELIC MOONLIGHT GODDESS GIRL.

“SHE’S JUST A GIRL.

“IT’S ALWAYS THAT GIRL.”

“FINAL NOTICE: ARE YOU GOING TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT? LAST CHANCE, NOW-OR-NEVER, MAKE A DECISION: ARE YOU GOING TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?” it says, printed in big bold red ink.

I don’t need to keep reading.

That’s what they said last time.
I throw the envelope in the trash.