Purple. Can you believe it? Purple! Bright, disgustingly fluorescent highlighter, all over my bottom left-hand corner. People have no respect for inanimate objects. I'll have you know that being folded hurts! Yes, it hurts! How would you like being folded in quarters? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Still, folding I can stand. I mean, it happens to everyone, right? Even being crumpled and stuffed in a pocket doesn't seem so bad. But purple?! The indignity!

Let me explain.

Just last week, I was enjoying a comfortable rest at the bottom of a Staples cash drawer. I was under a considerable stack of other bills, far enough down that I could barely feel the clamp. You know that big black spring-loaded clamp that keeps the money in a cash register in place? Well, let me tell you, those things hurt! Every bill you'll find has a permanent bruise around the middle, where those things hit.

Anyway, I was lying near the bottom of this stack for almost a week, relaxing. The bill under me was a pleasant sort of guy, if a bit naïve- he'd only been in circulation for half a month. I wonder where he's gotten to. Don't suppose I'll see him again- that's the life of a bill, all right.

So, come the end of the week, the people at Staples empty out the cash registers, leaving just enough money to start them off on Monday morning. Sure enough, when they opened up again, I was only about five bills from the top of the stack. My turn came when a young boy offered up a ten for a pack of highlighters that only cost 6.99. That was how my stay at Staples ended- as change. Beginning to understand the humiliation yet?

I hardly have words to describe the boy whose hands I was in. Rather sticky hands, to be precise. They crumpled me into a ball and shoved me into a pocket with all kinds of other junk. While bouncing through the car ride home, he decided that it would be a good idea to test his purchase. He fished in his pocket and pulled me out, cringing (not that he noticed), and-this is the worst part- proceeded to scribble on me. Scribble! Not only was I now purple, I looked like a preschooler's art project! And, just incase you didn't realize, highlighter doesn't exactly wash off a dollar bill. Nor does much else, as a matter of fact. Scarred for life might be an appropriate term.

Luckily, I didn't have to stick around there for too long. The next day I was handed over to a man selling in a little booth by the side of the highway as payment for flowers for Mother's Day. He even took the time to smooth me out of my crinkled ball and fold me back into thirds. Now, that's not something you see every day. Think about it. Have you ever folded a bill in thirds? It's always quarters, quarters, quarters. I didn't mind, of course- my crease lines were starting to ache.

I spent what must have been a few days in the man's wallet. There were a few other bills in there, but we slept for most of the time. It's really a good thing that we don't tend to get claustrophobic. You wouldn't believe the places where most bills have been stuffed at one time or another.

I woke up to the amplified sound of a zipper and a flood of electrical light. I could smell Carmel in the freezing air- an ice cream parlor. This man appears to have a fidgeting problem- he keeps twiddling me back and forth as he looks over his choices. Oh, good, he's decided. The girl behind the counter takes me- no sticky hands this time, thankfully- and-

OW! That clamp's practically a mousetrap. I bet I'll be feeling this one for a few days. In the words of the famous Cassandra, "How I detest this vile life of servitude".

Well, wouldn't you?