money

Well, love will have to take a back seat to money for a moment here. I don't know how many of you know, truly, what it is to live, breathe, sweat, sleep money, to know a two or three digit bank account balance to the penny, the time until the next paycheck to the hour, and how many weeks away it actually is. To combine the impossible poverty with a rejection of it as "beneath" me - I'd rather go hungry some days than fail, publicly, to buy a glass of wine casually, as if it weren't three days' groceries. At my age, no less. Part of it is criminal financial irresponsbility, and trust me, I'm fine admitting that. Part of it was the large five-figure sum donated to "The Ex to end all Exes" (Hmm. Professor Ex? Ahhh. SWMNBN - She Who Must Not Be Named. Purrrrrfect.) to keep her and various and sundry afloat. Because there's nothing like a starving graduate student living off student loans to leech off of in a pinch. Anyhow, I made my (bad) decisions, made the bed, and despite scrubbing the sheets repeatedly, it's still ugly, and I'm still in it. I'm back from the UK, and They found me yesterday, meaning whole new realms of the shit. Then, going to do my taxes today, I discoverd that 1) I earned an embarassingly small sum of money in 2005 and somehow managed to both quietly starve to death and also drink a lot of good wine and beer in Manfuckinghattan, and 2) Between fed and state, they want an additional 3% from me. Blood from a stone, fuckers, blood from a fucking stone. Thank god we don't have debtor's prison.

I'm grateful, too, that YCT is out of the picture at the moment. Much better to get this shit out of my system so I can fall back into the swoony unreality when she returns. Sigh.