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New Years’ 2016 came around just a little under three months ago. And with it, yours truly had yet again created a set of seemingly attainable goals for the subsequent 365 days in an feeble attempt to become a fully actualized adult.

Some of the list has been fairly simple to execute. For example, I’ve committed to putting more effort into my daily appearance, and so far there have been far less Mondays of me rolling into the office looking like the woman who lived in a bodega inside of a shoe. Other items went out the window as soon as I breathed them into existence; I swear a loaf of french bread and some hot wings appeared in my respective left and right hands as soon as I tried to commit to a carb-free lifestyle. (Speaking of which, I want my money back for purchasing The Secret. These repeated attempts to affirm my new diet are as effective as those waist shapers on Instagram.)

Relatively superficial goals aside, one thing I really wanted to commit to for the upcoming year is increased financial solvency. While I am doing fine on a day-to-day basis, I wanted to be prepared for the moment my office collectively looked up and realized that they were tired of paying me semimonthly just so I could afford the data charges I was receiving for tracking Serge on my Instagram notifications. Study after study shows that most Americans don’t have enough in savings to accommodate even relatively minor emergencies, and I didn’t want to be caught out here without a roof over my head just because the checks stopped coming for a month or two. Plus, a few relatively frivolous purchases — I definitely needed a new laptop, but I didn’t necessarily have to shell out for the Macbook pro with all the bells and whistles — after my last raise left me with a bit more credit card debt than I care to have for an extended period of time. So I put my best adulting foot forward and started trying to cut expenses and save more. Starting by downloading the Mint app.

Y’all, I say this with all intended respect. Fuck Mint.

Mint is truly that judging ass auntie who doesn’t let you have any fun. You tell the damn thing that you want to put aside a couple hundred bucks every month and it hates on EVERY nonessential decision you make via petty emails. You go out to happy hour one night and have a couple of cocktails because you are an adult who likes nice things like bourbon on the rocks, and first thing in the morning you get an email from Mint, player hater supreme: “Girl, you bought damn near the whole bar last night. You okay boo?”  It was only 4-5 drinks! Okay, maybe 6-7. Mint makes me feel worse about my alcohol consumption than the raggedy form I have to fill out on my drinking habits at the Doctor’s office.

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Other consistent questions I get the morning after: “I thought you weren’t spending money on fast food anymore…was this 2 AM order at Popeyes from you or nah?” “How did you spend almost $500 on restaurants this month when you still have damn near $15K of student loans to pay off?” “All this debt and you think you deserve an appetizer, entree, AND dessert? That’s might interesting.”

I swear, if I wanted all this judgment at seven in the morning, I would not have moved out of my mom’s house. At least then I’d be actively slashing the eternal albatross of paying monthly rent in New York City.

The austere overlords of Intuit don’t just send judgment on the Lord’s day either. The second any major direct deposit hits my account, here comes hating ass Mint: “I’m really happy for you. I’ll let you finish, but you got a car payment in three days so don’t think you caking like that.” Damn, Mint, back at it again with the party pooping.

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Almost anything that I consider to be a necessary expense stays being questioned by this godforsaken app. “Did you really need to spend $100 at Sephora the other day?” YES, Mint. YES I DID. For one, anyone who's ever been to Sephora knows that’s really only like four things. For two, please refer to the earlier resolution to stop looking like what the cat dragged in at the office. Unfortunately, I am not Beyonce and I do not wake up flawless; I am a Mascara, BB Cream, Bronzer, and Eyeliner away from juuuust hitting presentable.

Mint is basically the Dikembe Mutombo finger wag in application form, and I am tired. I feel more judged than the time I told people I had never seen the Diana Ross and Michael Jackson version of The Wiz.* I thought being an adult living on my own meant I only had to answer to myself, but the nosy lames who calculate the algorithms are hellbent on reducing my life into a downtrodden, meal-planning, sober existence. If this is what being fiscally responsible feels like for the indeterminate future, I want out. I’ll just marry Serge, er, rich or something.

*This has since been rectified, so you can put down the pitchforks.