I know it, you know it, people living in caves know it. But who thinks about money when they’re twenty-two? Well, the smart ones, probably, the practical ones. I thought about the artsy, unconventional, exotic life I’d lead as a poor. struggling writer. Hardship didn’t enter the picture.
I’m teetering on the brink of losing my car. Two payments behind is not a good place to be. I don’t want to lose my car; I like the freedom it gives me. I like being able to escape at a moment’s notice. I like having options. Riding the bus isn’t the same, is it? A bike’s better, but winter has to be considered.
Oh, crap, winter. It’s bad enough with a car. Without one? I’d rather be waterboarded. Who wants to stand outside in bitter, subzero weather, snow stinging your face, waiting for a slow, smelly, unreliable bus? Not me. A cab isn’t much more appealing. And walking to my menial, low paying job would be a long, hard 9-mile slog, one way. Hitchhiking’s a possibility, I guess.
This couldn’t have happened in April or March? When spring and summer stretched as far as the eye cared to see? No, it had to be here, now, at the tail end of mild weather. Gah! I hate this, I really do. I scratched and clawed, begged and borrowed my way through two layoffs and came within nine lousy payments of paying off the crummy loan. Isn’t that a kick in the head?
I’d like to blame my career choice for the current state of affairs, but it’s my fault. Who decides to be a writer in a crumbling, barely literate city? The correct answer is no one — no one but me.
The … aww, shi …
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