Dude, seriously, I'm broke
Recently, my girlfriend and I realized that we're fuck-ass broke. I mean, we are genuinely bereft of beautiful, life-giving money (or, referencing the Simpsons, "fazoolies").
Where the fuck are all our fazoolies? Where do they go?
I work a LOT. Six days a week, eight to fifteen hours a day. She pulls in a full, forty-hour work week. We both have shitty, minimum-wage jobs, this is true, but ... seriously, where the fuck does it all go? Even after van payments, rent, all that shit, theoretically, we shouldn't be so goddamn crack-whore broke, but we are. WHY!?
I'll tell you why. It's because we're stupid garbage shoppers. We buy garbage.
You see, money is a lot like a leaky container of mercury. You go to pour out a little mercury, because you need to use it ... and a little more leaks out. It drips onto the floor and then rolls away all willy-nilly, and it's gone. The same as whenever I pull my wallet out to pay for something necessary. A little bit more gets spent on something, each and every time. Go to spend fifty fazoolies, end up parting with sixty. It happens all. The. Time. The worst part of this is that nothing of substance is ever purchased. Just ... bullshit. Stupid shit that we could have done without. Stupid goods and services that, often times, aren't even things that will last for any length of time. Like, um, fast food or cigarettes. Cheap toys for the kid that will break and be forgotten within two weeks. Shit like that, man.
And you know what? We all do it. All of us. The real world economy, I sometimes think, is not in oil commodities or land or textiles - it's dollar store shit, convenience store impulse grabs, and take-out coffee.
Oh, and gas. Fuck the oil companies in the ass, dude. It's gotten to the point where $1.26 a liter is considered to be a cheap day at the pump. FUCK YOU. That's not cheap, that's highway robbery.
So, here's a completely unrelated story, because I don't have anything relevant, aha.
Well, this was something fuckin' else, wasn't it? Roy, being the great friend that he was, agrees to house-sit for Jimmy while he's gone for the week ... notices that the fucking lawn was turning into something that looked like a wheat field, and decides to mow before the predicted rain starts later in the afternoon ... gets out the push-mower ... and promptly falls through an old, rotten well cap. Roy had plummeted twenty feet down into a foot or so of murky water, and both of his legs had snapped irreparably on impact. He ended up jammed into an agonizing half-sitting, half-bent position in the narrow, slimy cylinder of the shaft. His legs were broken branches of misery beneath him.
He had to reach his phone and call for help, before the goddamn rain. Jimmy lived outside of town: his closest neighbor was almost a mile away. No one would hear his screams. It was supposed to absolutely fuckin' downpour when it started ... earlier, the perky weather girl on Channel 55 had informed him and the rest of the tri-county area that it was supposed to keep up like that until morning. He'd drown ...
Pushing his hand into his hip pocket stirred a jolt of pure torment through Roy's pulverized leg. It wasn't there. Heart pounding, he searched the other ... OH, oh no, oh fuck! Being the great friend that he was, he'd lent the motherfucking thing to fucking Jimmy; he'd said that he needed a phone to keep in touch with his sick Mom while he was away or some shit, fuckfuckfuck oh fucking shit, and now the rain was coming, it was gushing down in buckets - Roy screamed and screamed. Uncaring, the thundering rain continued to pour down.