Disclaimer: The following is a rehearsal of Tongue in Cheek style writing and not intended to solicit marriage proposals.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
That was Shakespeare’s version. Mine is more like this: Romeo, Romeo where in the world are you? Look at all these bills piling up. I can pay them, I just hate this administrative part of life and really need your help. It’s nothing fancy, just City of East Point (water, garbage, electricity, and recently recycling!), a party invite that needs an RSVP, renewals for my Runner’s World and Atlanta Magazine (I let Southern Living expire! Blasphemous I know. Maybe that is why he hasn’t shown up? What reputable woman in the South does not subscribe to Southern Living?), my 401K balance that I refuse to even open because it
makes my stomach hurt to look at it, car insurance stuff, a bill from the dentist, and a few others. All in little envelopes with those stupid cellophane windows and all perforated somewhere and they all have to be torn along the line and placed in their respective envelopes with little checks in them with the account numbers written on the checks and the account numbers are about 75 digits long, what is with that!? Then they all require a stamp. You mean I have to go to the Post Office for those? My only hope is working above a Post Office four days a week. If it weren’t for that and that Granny McCarley buys me a book for Christmas (per my request) each year, I would be in big trouble. So you have to apply the stamp, in the upper right hand corner. Then you have to dig around in the middle drawer and find some of those return address labels. The ones you get free in the mail. But they make my stomach hurt too, because they were given to me by the American Children with Incurable Disease Foundation and I didn’t send them any money. Because I didn’t have any to send! Because all my checks go in all these envelopes that are all stacking up. But still the return address labels make my stomach hurt too, because of the guilt. But not as bad as the 401K Stomach Hurt.
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
That was Shakespeare’s version. Mine is more like this: Romeo, Romeo where in the world are you? Look at all these bills piling up. I can pay them, I just hate this administrative part of life and really need your help. It’s nothing fancy, just City of East Point (water, garbage, electricity, and recently recycling!), a party invite that needs an RSVP, renewals for my Runner’s World and Atlanta Magazine (I let Southern Living expire! Blasphemous I know. Maybe that is why he hasn’t shown up? What reputable woman in the South does not subscribe to Southern Living?), my 401K balance that I refuse to even open because it
makes my stomach hurt to look at it, car insurance stuff, a bill from the dentist, and a few others. All in little envelopes with those stupid cellophane windows and all perforated somewhere and they all have to be torn along the line and placed in their respective envelopes with little checks in them with the account numbers written on the checks and the account numbers are about 75 digits long, what is with that!? Then they all require a stamp. You mean I have to go to the Post Office for those? My only hope is working above a Post Office four days a week. If it weren’t for that and that Granny McCarley buys me a book for Christmas (per my request) each year, I would be in big trouble. So you have to apply the stamp, in the upper right hand corner. Then you have to dig around in the middle drawer and find some of those return address labels. The ones you get free in the mail. But they make my stomach hurt too, because they were given to me by the American Children with Incurable Disease Foundation and I didn’t send them any money. Because I didn’t have any to send! Because all my checks go in all these envelopes that are all stacking up. But still the return address labels make my stomach hurt too, because of the guilt. But not as bad as the 401K Stomach Hurt. 
I know I have said this before, but this is nothing short of the way God sees us. We are His creation and He has given us 
