MonkeyPants

Dear Telus Mobility,

You’ve blown it. We are so over.

Oh, in the heady heyday, things were fine. Great even. So what if I got a message a day late and drove over to a student’s house who wasn’t there? So what if you occasionally decided my call had to end before I’d finished talking? We had chemistry, Telus. I was there for you.

But over the past year, you’ve changed. First there was the thing where you didn’t get my address on Eugene’s cell phone right—for three months! Yeah, that was pretty crappy. Then, when he tried and tried to pay the bill, you wouldn’t acknowledge it, and thus stranded a boy who was eight thousand miles from home with no way of communicating to his family. That’s cold, baby.

Then, in February, when I had called to sort things out at least twice a month since September, you inexplicably sent me a plush stuffed chameleon and a laser-printed letter telling me you valued my time. Did you really value my time? I didn’t notice it, because the next month, the same problems happened. Then..um, was it June? When you swapped my number for Eugene’s? That didn’t show caring, Telus. That was either your capricious sense of humour, or maybe just ignorant fuckwattage. I don’t know.

After I’d sold Eugene’s phone, what was with giving me the bill from the previous month, and telling me you were going to cut off service? I paid the bill, and the woman who bought the phone watched me. I was wise to your lies by then, Telus.

And today, I check my messages coming home from work, and I get a text message, saying that you’re giving me unlimited local calling for my birthday? You said, right in the message, that October 11 was my birthday. Yes, it was. Yesterday! How shall I get that lovely, lovely perk, Telus? Have you invented a time machine that I might travel back to 24 hours ago and merrily call all my pals and chat for hours, basking in my knowledge that my Birthday calls were free?

The bottom line is: You forgot my birthday, you ill-gotten, badly-run, outsourced company. That equals me dumping your sorry ass.

And if you send me another plush toy to try to woo me back, I am filling it with rotting meat and sending it back.

So this is it, Telus Mobility.

It’s not me, it’s you.