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Me with my cat Zeni !!
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TIFU by using the company credit card to pay for a dating site and accidentally charging $8,000 in 'upgrades' right before a company-wide audit.
The Background
I work as a marketing director for a mid-sized tech company. My job involves a lot of vendor lunches and travel, so I have access to a corporate credit card. The rule is simple: everything must have a receipt and be related to business.
My life, on the other hand, is a bit of a mess. I recently went through a brutal breakup and, in a moment of weakness and loneliness last Friday, decided to sign up for a high-end, exclusive dating app—the kind that costs $100 a month just to look at profiles. I was working late, my personal wallet was in my jacket, and the corporate card was already on my desk.
This is where the first, irreversible mistake happened: I used the company card, telling myself I’d immediately correct it on Monday and pay the balance back.
The Colossal F**-Up
As I was signing up, the app offered a "limited-time introductory package" with features like "priority matching" and "visibility boosts." Tired and distracted, I mashed the big, shiny button without reading the details. The page refreshed, and I immediately got a digital receipt in my email.
The fee wasn't $100. It was $7,899.99.
In my sleep-deprived daze, I hadn't realized I’d bought a lifetime platinum membership with every possible add-on and boost—a package that’s usually targeted at bored billionaires, not sad marketing directors. I frantically tried to cancel, but the fine print stated all "platinum upgrade sales" were final and non-refundable.
I was officially on the hook for nearly eight thousand dollars on a dating app, all charged to my company.
The Audit Notification
Monday morning, I walked into the office determined to tell my boss everything and write a massive personal check. But before I could, an all-staff email dropped.
Subject: IMMEDIATE FINANCE LOCKDOWN - EXTERNAL AUDIT INCOMING
Apparently, our company is in talks for a major acquisition, and the potential buyers requested a full financial audit—starting immediately. All corporate expenses for the last quarter had to be reconciled and submitted to the auditors by 5 PM that day. Any discrepancies or personal charges would be flagged directly to the CEO, and since they were looking for any excuse to reduce the company's valuation, they were treating everything as a major integrity breach.
I had about eight hours to make $7,899.99 in fraudulent charges disappear.
The Desperate, Gripping Fix
I realized I couldn't just pay it back; the transaction was already logged as a digital expense with the dating site's name on the bank statement. I had to create a legitimate, auditable reason for a $7,899.99 charge to a merchant that didn't exist.
I raced across town to a sketchy electronics surplus store I knew that mostly dealt in cash. I bought exactly $7,899.99 worth of obsolete, bulky server components—the kind of junk that tech auditors would assume was part of a "hardware upgrade." I got a generic, hand-written receipt that simply said "Server Components - Q4 Upgrade" and had the store's legitimate tax ID.
I drove back, crammed the dusty, massive boxes into a rarely used storage closet, and then digitally edited the corporate card statement. I replaced the dating site vendor name with the name of the electronics store and attached the hand-written receipt to the expense report.
I submitted it at 4:58 PM, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hit the 'send' button.
The Current Situation
It’s been two days. The expense has cleared. The audit team is currently sifting through thousands of transactions. I haven't been called in, but I’ve seen them walking the halls, clipboards in hand.
Every time my phone rings, I assume it’s an HR call asking about a massive purchase of server components that nobody ordered and that are now gathering dust in a locked closet. If the auditors actually ask to see the components or if they cross-reference the vendor's digital transaction details with the handwritten receipt, my career—and likely my job—is over.
I’m currently hiding in my office, staring at a $7,899.99 lifetime dating profile I’m too terrified to even log into, sitting next to a massive stack of worthless server junk.
TL;DR: Used company credit card to pay $100 for a dating site, accidentally charged $7,899.99 for a "platinum membership." Found out five minutes later a company-wide financial audit was starting immediately. Had to spend the company’s money again on $7,899.99 worth of useless server hardware to create a fake receipt and cover my tracks. Now waiting to see if my career explodes.
My Grandpa's Old Photos Show Something That Shouldn't Be There, And Now I Hear It
I’ve always been fascinated by my grandpa's old things. He passed away a few months ago, and I’ve been helping my mom clear out his dusty old house, a place that always felt a little… heavy. Not haunted, exactly, just like the air itself was thick with unspoken memories.
Last week, I was in the attic, sifting through boxes of forgotten junk, when I found a wooden chest. Inside, among old war medals and yellowed letters, was a small, leather-bound photo album. These weren't the typical family snapshots; these were art. Black and white landscapes, portraits with deep shadows, all taken with his vintage medium format camera. Grandpa was a hobbyist photographer, and he was good.
Most of the photos were of the local area from the 1950s and 60s – the old mill, the covered bridge, the dense woods that surround our town. But as I flipped through, a recurring theme started to emerge. In many of the landscape shots, particularly those of the deep woods near the old logging trails, there was something… off.
It wasn't immediately obvious. It was always in the background, half-hidden by trees or obscured by shadow. A vertical distortion, almost like a smear, or perhaps a figure too thin and too tall to be human, just barely peeking out from behind a trunk. At first, I dismissed it as a developing error, or a trick of the light. Film can be finicky.
But then I got to a series of photos taken in autumn, the leaves vibrant but falling. There was a clearing, and in one shot, closer than before, was it. It wasn't a smear. It was definitely a figure. Tall, impossibly gaunt, with long, thin limbs. Its head was tilted, almost too far, and where its face should have been, there was just… blur. Like a hole in reality. No distinct features, just a dark, smooth absence. And it was looking directly at the camera. At Grandpa.
I shivered, the hairs on my arms standing up. This wasn't a trick of light. It was in multiple photos, over a span of years. Grandpa had been documenting something, or perhaps, it had been documenting him.
I showed the photos to my mom. She just shook her head, a strange, distant look in her eyes. "Your grandpa spent too much time in those woods," she murmured, almost to herself. "Always looking for something that wasn't there." She wouldn't elaborate.
Since then, I haven't been able to shake the images from my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see that tall, faceless figure. And then the sounds started.
It's faint at first, usually after midnight. A soft, rhythmic thump… thump… thump… It comes from the woods behind Grandpa’s house, which borders our property. It’s not like an animal. It’s too regular, too deliberate. Like something dragging itself, or perhaps, like something slowly… walking. Each thump sounds heavy, wet, and somehow… wrong.
I tried to tell myself it's just the wind, or a branch falling. But it’s getting closer. Last night, I heard it right outside my window. The thump… thump… thump… was directly beneath me. I froze, not daring to move, my breath caught in my throat. It stopped there for a long moment, then slowly, agonizingly, moved away, back towards the deeper woods.
I pulled out the album again today. There's one last photo I hadn't properly looked at. It’s a close-up, a selfie of Grandpa, grinning, holding up a fish. But over his shoulder, through the screen door of his old hunting cabin, blurred but undeniably there, is that same impossibly tall, faceless figure.
And now, as I type this, I hear it again. Closer than ever. It's not a thump anymore. It's a dragging, scratching sound. Like something trying to get in.
I don’t know what Grandpa found in those woods, or what he was trying to capture. But I think it saw him, too. And now it knows I found the old photograph.
I hear a faint scratching on the window downstairs.