being poor blows

Ryan and I are broke. The kind of broke that crushes your soul and makes you lie under the covers naked, cry hysterically and decide to take a couple of waitressing shifts per week at a place that specializes in tacos. That really happened. Today.

What's wrong with waitressing? Nothing. I did, once upon a time, tell myself that I would never do it again, but, hey, it's not stripping...

What's wrong with this is that I paid $64,000 (plus interest that is ticking away as I type) for a degree in creative writing from an ivy league school that pretty much means absolutely nothing. I don't think poor people should aspire towards the arts; it's too much to get on top of.

Oh the despair. Oh the self-pity. Oh the bills piling up and the credit card debt from five years ago and the collectors that come with it.

We wanted to do the right thing, to clear our names, to not make Ben check the caller i.d. before he answers the phone when he's old enough. So we turned all of our savings over to pay off our credit cards, and now we have next to nothing and we're travelling to New York this week, and I'm trying to calculate how much I can spend on food per day, and that amount equals six dollars.

I drove by my dream house today, and the "for sale" sign was down. Some rich asshole bought it.

I will not look back on this fondly. It isn't romantic. It really fucking blows.

I picked Ben up from day care today, and as we were driving home, the sky streamed pink and blue. It was really pretty, but then I realized that it must be from the fires in Orange County. I thought to myself, this should put things in perspective, but it didn't really. I still feel sorry for myself.

But tonight, Ben played in the bathtub and he stacked blocks--seven of them!--and he smiled at me and gave me high fives and held my hand and I did, for a couple of hours, stop feeling sorry for myself and smile. And that's something.