Illuminations

It is here. My mid-month monster. That phase of the moon wherein, having bled money profusely for two weeks in an attempt to appease at least the greater share of creditors, I run bone dry in the checking account. 

Every month. Same time. That dreaded and painful financial menstruation that ravages me and therefore those in my physical vicinity with mood swings (from bleak to black), irritability (from cranky to homicidal) and bloating (from drinking the cheapest beer I can find). 

And there is no Midol™ short of spending half as much or earning twice as much that can alleviate this discomfort.

Now I know what you’re thinking: He’s living beyond his means. And in the angry glare of all that red ink there is little I can say to disprove your assessment. But I rely on your generosity of empathy as I ask you to understand that, in present circumstances, living any more frugally than I currently do would place your scribe in an environment too close to Public Housing for his delicate nerves to handle. 

Beyond that, it’s probably been a good year since I’ve dined at any restaurant that could be called “fine.” I purchased the very few Christmas gifts I bestowed last month with cash or it’s more web-friendly, debit card equivalent. I eat like a flea, shop like a thief and dress like a Gap ad from 1994.

Sure, there are areas where I could cut back, like separating myself from those draconian pick-pockets at Comcast Cable and Verizon Wireless. I suppose I could also divest myself of the car lease with some huge “early conclusion” penalty in favor of a bike or something. And wouldn’t that be great? No TV, no internet, no phone, no car…hey!

No lights! No phone! No motor car! Not a single luxury. Like Robinson Crusoe, as primitive as can be!

Sing it, bitches, because that’s about how this whole relocation experience has turned out: Gilligan’s Fucking Island. I may have started as Thurston Howell, III, but now I feel more like some slimmer version of the Skipper; by title responsible for the wreck of the SS Minnow in the first place and left pouring my heart out into the empty coconut shell that is this journal.

I just wish the Professor would weave some palm fronds into a machine that prints money, just like the one they apparently have in Washington, DC. (How’s that for a tortured segue back to the main topic?)

Yes, yes. I know. 

I’ve made this very post in slightly different words before, likely just last month around this same time. But you’ll just have to forgive me. Because as you already know…

it’s my time of the month.