The Bank is Pissing Me Off

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 Tomorrow I have to deal with the bank. The whole enterprise. The invisible underwriters that want to know why we want a smaller house, and will only accept a signed note, as though I was a kid trying to forge an excuse for being out sick.

If necessity is the mother of invention, then surely invention is the means to shut necessity up. Or maybe necessity is easily duped thanks to inventions.

Either way, the job got done. I uploaded a signature when I was a Commander out in Wheeling. I reused it for all those damn letters that absolutely had to be signed and made into a pdf file. Sometimes my signature was squished, and other times it was a bit rotated as though I signed at an angle. None of those factually depict my daily signature - a scratchy mess of indistinguishable letters.

I suppose, if signatures are reflective of a person's personality and self-inspection, I'm a fucking chaos god.

But the bank? I want answers. I've never heard of a loan approval taking this long. If you won't approve the house, or the appraisal, or our credit-worthiness, then tell us so we can move on.