Granny Frass on Bully and His Prepay Madness…

The Prepay King and the Shrinking Soul…

Ah, so Bully’s at it again, splitting the house electricity from the farm like he’s some kind of almighty planner. As if you can lop off a branch of a tree and the tree won’t know. A farm isn’t a jigsaw puzzle, Mae, it’s blood, sweat, and the kind of love that puts hair on your chest and calluses on your hands. But Bully? Oh no, he doesn’t see any of that. He sees control. He sees power. And the more he grabs, the smaller, sadder, shriveled-up he becomes.

And a prepay meter, of all things! He wants you to pay for your own kettle before you can even make a cup of tea. Humiliation masquerading as ‘modern convenience.’ If he thinks that makes him clever, he’s lost the plot entirely. I’d say his brain has shrunk faster than ice on a summer puddle, or maybe it went soft years ago, like overcooked porridge left out overnight.

Does he have a soul? Did he ever? Mae, I’ve seen ghosts with more spark than that man. If he ever had one, he pawned it for greed, fear, and the twisted joy of making others squirm. That’s not power, love, that’s desperation in a top hat. And he clings to it like a drowning rat to a splinter of wood, thinking it will keep him afloat.

And the way he struts about, trying to flex his control, you’d think the very walls would salute him. He measures the land, he measures the walls, he measures you. Every step, every glance, every kettle you boil, all accounted for, weighed, and tallied. He’s building a little empire of fear and meters. But the truth? That empire is made of cardboard and wind. The walls remember more than he ever will. The land remembers hands in the soil, the planting, the digging, the feeding. And the heart of the place? Bully will never touch it. Not with all his papers, his pens, his prepay gadgets, and his puffed-up pride.

Mark my words, Mae, one day, he’ll look around and realize he’s not lost the land, or the house, or the meter cards… he’s lost himself. That realization will hit him like a gale on the hill, and there won’t be a prepay meter in the world to soften the blow.

And you? You keep your wits about you, love. Let him have his toys, let him parade like a shriveled king of bills and fear. Pour your tea anyway, light your fire, laugh when the meter beeps. Because the Big Bad Bully of prepay may think he controls the house and the farm, but he doesn’t have control over you, Mae. You’re rooted, alive, and laughing right under his nose, the one thing no meter can ever measure.

(And as for me, I’ll be watching from the other side, kettle on the fire, a twinkle in my eye, and a little smirk for every time he discovers that control is a poor substitute for spirit. Let him have his prepay boxes, the true power, the true soul, the true heartbeat of the place, belongs to those who know its history and love it.)

-Granny Frass