You know those days when you turn over your change jar and shake out all the quarters and then sadly you realize you have a bank account balance that would only please a twelve-year old? It’s one of those days. I hate stressing about money, and that’s the main thing going on today.
I also don’t like talking about money, or talking about money problems because inevitably you send up sounding like an asshole. Someone’s always got worse money problems than you do. That’s like me complaining about my swimmer’s ear next to a guy with a seeing eye dog. It’s hard to keep everything in perspective, though, when you allow yourself to get so nervous about money.
Working freelance means you never really know when that next paycheck is coming, and it’s hard to budget. It’s almost impossible to just splurge on something because you end up regretting it later when that one check you were counting on isn’t coming for another month, or might not be coming ever again. Anyway, I allowed myself to wallow in my brokeness today, and I’m just the worst person to be around.
I’ve beaten myself up for anything I’ve bought over the past month that wasn’t food or shelter. I’m angry with myself for purchases I’ve made for the future. I got mad at Taylor for licking the Advantage off his neck, when that stuff costs thirty bucks a month and keeps fleas off his face and worms out of his butt. I can’t believe how much it costs to have a cell phone. My cable is going up because they’re going bankrupt and now we have to pay for their mistakes. Why did I buy two pairs of shoes three months ago? I could have used that money this week.
I really do hate talking about money. I want to stop thinking about it today. But my Cipro cost seventy dollars. Then ten for the drops, ten for the pain killers. I spent a hundred dollars to fix my left ear and you know what? It still hurts. Not better yet. One hundred dollars and I’m still not better. Plus twenty-five for the doctor’s visit, and sixty bucks for health insurance. Two hundred dollars because I went in a pool. Not to mention the money spent on sunscreen (that didn’t work) and the money spent on additional, stronger sunscreen, plus aloe vera and advil to deal with the sunscreen.
I’d love to talk about something other than money, but since I’ve been on my ass for three days trying to get better, the only thing of any interest that’s happened to me over the past four days is that I just about died when I saw my available balance this morning.
Don’t read this, Mom: I’ve been doing a little research into TMJ, my new affliction, and I read that 80% of those with TMJ are women of childbearing years. And at first I was like, “That’s weird. I wonder if it’s hormonal.” Then I realized: blowjobs. TMJ is caused by blowjobs. 80% women in their childbearing years. 20% gay men. We are the TMJ nation. Now I can see all the guys putting their fingers on their girls’ temples, asking them to move their jaw to see if it clicks. If it clicks, does that make her a keeper, or a ho? Uh-huh. Chew on that. But don’t bite down too hard.
Okay, Mom. You can read again.
So… yeah. What else. What… else. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nope. There’s this again:
After a 5 week sold-out run, we are bringing back by popular demand:
“Call Us Crazy”
an adaptation of readings from Anne Heche’s Book “Call Me Crazy” featuring actresses from Second City, Mad TV, the Groundlings, and Acme Comedy Theater.
one night only
August 20th @ 7pm
The Knitting Factory
7021 Hollywood Blvd
323-463-0204 for tickets and reservations
conceived and directed by Pamela Ribon
Hilary Anderson Cynthia Szigeti Amy Blackard-Castner Liz Feldman Anna Heilbron Laura House Jessica Kaman Jessica Littlefield Stephanie Markham Jill-Michele Melean Katey Mushlin Pamela Ribon Rebecca Davis Angie Rubio and Shannon Hillary
with music by Brently Heilbron
produced by ray prewitt and dammitray productions
That’s when you know I’ve got nothing. I’m running a news ticker instead of an entry.
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