To My Student Loan Servicing Company:
Send the little man in the silken booties so I can start guessing his name already. If I’m correct, I keep my firstborn. If not, goodbye Junior. Either way, we can finally consider my Federal Student Loans paid in full.
We’ve all read the same Grimm fairytale, which is why I’m writing to you, my loan servicer, to say fuck the Income Driven Plan. Instead, let’s try something off-menu: The Rumpelstiltskin plan, in which I correctly guess a creepy man’s name or he takes my child.
Don’t pretend this option doesn’t exist or that you lack the constitutional authority under the law to discharge my debt as defined by Biden v Nebraska, 600 U.S. 477. Does a 6-3 Supreme Court majority have a say over fucking magic? I didn’t think so. Just send a raven to the Black Forest forthwith or whatever.
This past week, I gazed into my son’s eyes and took a hard look at my latest student loan balance, and I could draw only one conclusion. Both are growing at a rate that is costing me an inordinate amount of fucking money. I mean, Jesus Christ, how many sizes can a toddler wear in such a short amount of time?
Sure, I’ll miss my son, I guess, but I won’t miss making the down payment for my starter home. Like the woman in the fairytale, I have been saddled by this economy with turning a bunch of shit into gold. It’s been fifteen years since I told my gullible parents that I thought graduate school might be the smart play to wait out the soft economy for “the big bucks.” Despite my payments, the loan balance still seems to be going in the wrong direction.
Yes, my wife doesn’t like this plan, but I’ll handle her. In the spirit of someone to whom gambling comes naturally, I told her we only “might” lose our son. It’s not a certainty, and I get three chances. True, I’m no expert on Germanic names, so maybe I’ll pick something dumb for the first guess, like Jeremy, but once I lock in it’s on to more likely choices like Adalbert or Sigismund.
So, tell the little man to stop hopping around the fire by moonlight and get over here. My son will be freshly changed, with spare diapers and apple slices for the road—not that you’ll need them, obviously.