The Price of Greatness

Coffee considers himself a great, "elite" man, and as I get to know him, I have to say that I agree. He is very good at his job and at getting things done. He is really good at identifying a problem and coming up with a "program" to address it and guarantee success. Needless to say, he is a workaholic. He doesn't take vacations and has very little free time. I suppose this is the price of being great. 

Man, when I was a kid, I used to fantasize about how great I would be. I was going to be amazing! Even now, I think about how great it would be if I were great. I think of how much more independent I would be and how much money I would have. One thing I don't want to think about is the amount of work and sacrifice that would go into it. Years ago, I saw a documentary on Kobe Bryant that he did while he was still alive. He said that at night, he would go to the local college campus and see all the kids his age hanging out and having a good time. He thought about how cool it would be not to be famous, and what a time he could be having if he had decided to go to college instead of the NBA. However, he would snap out of this thinking, saying that not being a free and fun college boy was the price he paid for greatness. Hm. 

I guess my price for greatness would be forgoing my never-ending depression and interacting in the world. So, I guess the question is: Is striving to be great a better move than just continuing to withdraw from life? I guess the answer is buried in how much I value money versus how much I love the concrete darkness of continually falling apart. Maybe I should take some more time to think about this. It would be easier to do if I had all the time in the world. Now that would be great. 

Broke As A Bad Joke

Risky Business has fallen on some hard times since she had to leave her residency program. She is living with her parents, and money has gotten pretty tight. That's okay because she has come up with a no-fail financial plan: donating plasma. I am so jealous! If it weren't for the medication that I am on, I would be at the donation center now! 

Most people think that being broke is just being broke; a period of time when a person has to deal with strained resources and/or little to no money. However, the average person may not be broke enough to know that there are levels to brokeness. There is the general not having money and waiting on money to come in level, and there is the level where you have to get really creative, really quickly, or you are going to cross over into a dire situation. This is where a lot of people land in brokeness. Then, of course, there are those who have absolutely no loot to fall back on, their plans didn't work out, and they end up being homeless. That is when a broke person officially crosses over to being poor. Poor is hard. Really hard. 

So, like most women out in the world today who need dough, Risky is getting creative, and I admire her giddy-up. Other friends are offering freelance services, driving for ride shares, pawning their goods, or relying on a boyfriend. Some have resorted to stripping, OnlyFans, or some other pay-for-play service. Again, I salute these people! I have nothing to offer for quick cash, which may be the root of my real problems in real life. I would start a lemonade stand, but lemons have gotten pricey. 

Late last year, I was on a call with many of my old college friends. It was a call solidifying the committee for our reunion year. Part of the discussion was about our class gift and what our fundraising goal was going to be. Someone on the call suggested that there were some of us who could afford to donate $24K. I put myself on mute and laughed. Twenty-four thousand American dollars?! If I had that kind of money, I would withdraw half of it and roll around in it on my bedroom floor naked. Then I would begin to pay off my bills, starting with the ones that used the most threatening language in their letters. 24K. Get out of here! 

Coffee often says that I can work hard or find a man who does. Sadly, I don't think that is my lot in life. I think I am totally a plasma type of girl. However, we discussed that isn't an option for me. Are people willing to pay money for other people's failed dreams or bad jokes?

Homecoming Post 4: Holls and the Throuple

There were a lot of people that I wanted to see at homecoming. Two people that I felt it was imperative to see were Sexy Koala and Hot Wife to potentially discuss being a third in their marriage. They just seem really cool, and I'm in desperate need of a future. After I graduated from college, people told me to get a job and a car, but no one, NO ONE, suggested that I get a future. Turns out, that's important. 

Sexy Koala is tall and cute. I thought so even in school. But what's way more importante than his being tall and cute is that he has a job. I looked him up on LinkedIn. He works someplace I've never heard of, doing something I don't understand. Who can deduce what anyone does with these new-age fancy job titles?? What I have deduced from social media is that he makes money. I don't, so I think he and I would complement each other well in this way. 

Oddly enough, the desire to be a part of Sexy Koala's marriage is not rooted in Sexy Koala; it's rooted in the persona of his hot wife whom I affectionately refer to as Hot Wife. Homegirl has it going on! From what I can see on Instagram, she is living the soft life, and I want in! She's always smiling and happy. Never looks stressed. Once, I saw a pic of her in a hammock. Now you know you are in your soft girl era when you are chillin' in a hammock! I want a soft life. My life is hard, and I want out! All I do is worry about money and bills and the new season of Stranger Things. I too want cool clothes and vacations and gourmet birthday cakes with fancy sparkler candles. I guess that all comes with marrying a provider. That's another thing no one told me to make sure I got: a provider. Damn it! 

I Googled how to approach an existing couple about entering into a throuple, and I didn't like what I read. I in no way want to infringe on their love, but I think I'd be a good helping hand. I like to cook and fold clothes. Hot Wife would still have time to get her nails done, and in return for my hard work, Sexy Koala could take on my student loan payments and phone bill. 

I was excited to see that Sexy Koala came to homecoming, but I didn't see his wife. This sucked because I'd really be making my pitch to her. I think that as a woman, she'd better understand the benefit of having a humorous, live-in maid. As smart as Sexy Koala was in school, I think the concept would go right over his head. 

A part of me is bitter that it has come to this for me, but I'm 40. I can either cry about it or actively begin exploring solutions, and yes, some of them may not be traditional. Just know that when you are in a soul-squeezing rush to find healthcare and stable shelter, traditions of olden days have to fall by the wayside. 

I have a message to them both that I can't send because I keep editing it. My proposal has to be perfect before I reach out. Until then, sadly, it's back to the hardness of it all. Ick. 

UF-No

So, there is this thing in space that NASA is saying is a comet, but there is this guy at Harvard that says that it could possibly be an alien mothership, and if this is the case, we should be preparing, seeing that it should be coming our way by October. I don't know what preparing for alien guests would look like. I guess that depends on whether they are coming to shake our hands or to suck the blood out of our heads. Either way, I feel like if the aliens are coming, we should all stop paying our bills. What's the point? The aliens could be peace-bringers or human-hurters. Either way, I think that they would find the concept of paying one's bills to be dumb and restrictive. I don't know this for sure, but my spirit is telling me that they would have a huge issue with rents, mortgages, and student loans. On day one, I could see them globally moving to forgive these payments, right before they zapped us in our chests. Just something to think about as you budget for the next month. 

Warning Signs

When I was coming home from my doctor's appointment yesterday, I noticed that the streets were literally lined with tents where homeless people were living. Atlanta has always had a large homeless population, but this was beyond anything I'd seen in my decades living here. It was interesting because the big news from the beginning of the week was that the president wanted to move the homeless out of DC. When I was fresh out of college, the mayor at the time attempted to do the same thing here in Atlanta. He went as far as to close the city's biggest shelter, build the streetcar hub in a parking lot where a lot of the homeless slept, and allow the police to harass the homeless when they weren't even doing anything. Surprise, surprise, the operation didn't work. Apparently, you have nowhere to go when you have nowhere to go. P follows all the financial news. I don't know why, it is never good news. He says that we are entering a cycle where people are not going to be hiring or firing. He says that the sign of a healthy economy is the creation of new jobs and that little to no job creation is not a good sign. 

I say all that to say that this all reminds me of the way things were right before and during the recession when I first graduated from college. What a nightmare! No one I knew was working in their field unless they were in some kind of way working in medicine. A lot of my friends got advanced degrees to live off the loan money and have something to do. I was working at the mall part-time at a clothing store while studying for my GRE, which I took twice and did INCREDIBLY poorly on. My aunty had a great job, but I still recall money being very, very tight. We were eating cheap junk and had very little cash to spare. On top of this, I remember it being really hard to find legit work, and a lot of the posts for jobs were fake. I recall a co-worker getting a gig as an assistant for a day. She did all this work just to be sent a fake money order in the mail as payment. I had rummaged up change to take the bus to interviews for serious jobs, only to get there and be told that the jobs were really sales jobs, you know, the kind where you work like a dog, sell nothing, and make no money. It mean, it was horrible! 

I feel like something is coming down the pipes in this country, and I am concerned. I am too old and have no energy. There is no way I could make it through another recession. The unsettling part is that I don't think whatever is on the way is going to be a traditional recession. I think that it is also going to be accompanied by civil and social unrest. I can smell it in the milk. There are immigration protests everywhere, and officials are openly discussing women not having the right to vote. Prices are rising like you wouldn't believe. Now add homelessness, the fear of being homeless, and a decline in available work to that, and I sense a recipe for disaster. Oh, and don't forget to throw in a teaspoon of really aggressive climate change. 

I hate to be a Negative Nancy, but when I discuss this, it is more to discuss how I am fully aware that I don't have the grit to go through 2008 again. When you are younger, hardships feel like an uncomfortable cold that will soon pass. At this age, I fully know what is up. I watch the news every day, and I predict that whatever is on the way will be solved at some point, but the answer will not be as easy as blowing your nose. Either way, we should all probably stock up on Kleenex. 

Money Talks

"I made bipityblahdumpity this year in sales," Mary said. She was sitting on a bar stool, sipping on a cocktail that matched her lipstick, wearing a pair of glasses from her own collection. She, me, and Carolita were reunited for our quarterly supper club outings which took a hiatus during COVID. We were at one of those Atlanta dives where the waitresses have fat asses and visible lace fronts. The music being played was suitable for a middle-tier strip joint or, in this case, waiting over two hours for overcooked, oily fried green tomatoes. "Twipitiydobitty sustainable business model," she went on to say. "...investments with a poopity return over a 12-month minimum."

I could feel my eyes glazing over, so I looked to Carolita for clarification, only to become even more lost. 

"Me and my sister do a yaddayadda."

"What's that?" Mary asked. 

"That's where you twinkletwinkle on a star for a diddybop," she explained. 

I just stood there, my eyes bouncing between the two of them. What were they talking about?! And why didn't I know what they were talking about? And how did they have money to do all this stuff? Oh right, they have real jobs, I thought to myself. That and some deep well of knowledge around money that I just do not have. I am literally two years away from 40 and know as much about investing as a newborn! I guess I should start hoarding the canned goods now for darker days. 

I read somewhere once that how you were raised has a lot to do with your attitude toward money. Carolita was raised in a solid two-parent home. Granted I don't know all the details, but I don't think that she ever had to sell water on the side of the expressway to make ends meet. Mary is the daughter of hardworking Nigerians. My grandmother was literally scared to spend money while I had witnessed my mom write checks for food at the Winn-Dixie with her fingers crossed. I guess I fall someplace in between the two of them. 

"If I had a thousand dollars to invest, where would you advise me to put it?" I asked Mary. This was a serious question. 

"That's a hard question," she said, sipping on one of those really skinny cocktail straws. I am assuming that this is a hard question because a thousand bucks is the equivalent of five cents in the investment game. 

This conversation lingered on my mind, even after the dinner. I want to be a lady boss too! How can I be down? 

"Well, I am not balling like them," Tasha assured me when I told her about what we had talked about. For a split second I felt relieved. Maybe I could have a roommate who I knew in the low-income nursing facility. But then she went on to talk about how her grandparents were leaving her property when they die and how her mom hand been saving and investing for her since the womb! 

I got off the phone and just stared at the wall in silence. How did I allow this to happen to me?! I can't be the little old lady who lived in her shoes because I only have one good pair! I am going to be the angry old lady who fashioned a tent out of her plus-size maxi dresses to squat under a bridge. I should have been more motivated! I saw how not having money stressed out my mother. And it's not like I ever deluded myself into believing that some man was going to come a long and support me. Men have always picked over me like rotten fruit and the ones that didn't wanted money from me! Now I am skidding towards middle age without a pot to piss in! As you know I am a writer; I love a good story. But not even I want to know how the story ends for the almost 40-year-old that didn't prepare appropriately for life. 

I can't whine about this anymore. My anxiety is rising. Plus, time is money. 

The Cappin' Captain

I went to school with some real bosses. Pharmacists. Doctors. Lawyers. Business owners. Materially, I do not have as much as many of the people that I graduated with and, admittedly, being what I consider a "have not" played into my not wanting to go to my 10-year reunion with my friend DZ five years ago; played into my insecurity and anxiety. I don't have a $500,000 home or a luxury car. What would I tell people about my life? How could I explain to people that in the 10 years that it took for them to become "rich", I was kind of lost in the world, essentially, with my degree and everything I had ever written? If anyone were to ask me what I was doing at the time professionally, a common question at homecoming, I imagined myself screaming. I imagined myself crying. I imagined myself dropping dead. But one thing that never occurred to me to do was lie.

X lies. X lies big time. X lies to the point that it is almost laughable. If X had seven twins and thirty personalities, X still could not have accomplished everything that X says that X has. And these are not little white lies. These are huge, traceable, and, at times laughable lies. It has gotten to the point that folks are starting to figure this out about X and now have to cross-reference with their circles and contacts if what X is saying is true. Or sorta true. Or complete fiction. 

X is fun. X is funny. X is a good friend to X's friends, but X is also a mystery. A real head-scratcher. For although it has been confirmed that X's resume is about as good as a penny with a hole in it, X still somehow displays the financial fruits of this invisible labor. This, in turn, has turned people who know X into professional hypothesizers. Is X the bastard child of an African prince? Did X win the lottery? Is X an art thief? A Narco? A scammer? I mean, what?! People can't wrap their minds around it! But I can. 

Being completely honest opens you up to judgment and who wants that? Not I said the cat! But lying is exhausting and troublesome. You have to be lightning fast, ready to cover up a previous lie with another one; sidestepping questions and accusations. I am not lightning fast. I am molasses slow. I'd have to come clean after one day of pulling everyone's leg. X has been at it for almost 20 years! Kinfolk always tells me that the grass is not as green as it looks with a lot of our old classmates which is great, because I've never liked grass. DZ would say it is simple as standing in your truth. If I were close enough to X, I would tell X the jig is up and to exit the fairytale into reality. Homecoming is all love, and everyone has their own BS. I'd encourage X to sit next to me on the astroturf and have some spilled tea with me. It doesn't pay to lie, and that's truth. 

Holly Thee Horsey

The other night I was feeling pretty bad about myself and my life. It was then that I got the urge to read my Bible. I have the Bible app on my phone, so I reached for my phone and accidentally clicked on the YouTube icon. This is where I was introduced to one Megan Thee Stallion.
Listen, Megan may not be holy but she definitely took me to church! It has been a long time since I have heard a female rapper so brazenly and articulately discuss ripping men off for their money. I have to say, I was spiritually moved.
When it comes to the age-old art of shaking men down for their paper, it is important to go to The Word of God. I wasn't sure about this but my friend Angela told me what was what a few years ago when I was getting tossed out of my apartment.
"You don't have a dude that can help you with the rent?" she asked, concerned.
"What? No." I thought she was being silly, but she was totally serious.
"Look Holly, we were made from their rib. They are supposed to be taking care of us. It's part of the creation story."
Case. Closed.
Isn't it interesting how, even today, as forward-thinking women, many of us still often think of men coming in and saving the day for us? I can not tell you how often I have dreamed about a strong, muscular man with both an open mind and wallet coming along and taking care of some of my past due balances.
Sadly, my goody-goody upbringing won't allow me to really live and think this way. I know I have to take care of myself. That is, unless God sends a man my way with some money. Then I will have to treat him like Megan taught me:

If you balling and you know it, then let the money show

If he acting scared to spend it, I'ma show him to the door 

Amen. 

Pots

I am 34 and I don't have a pot to piss in. The only thing separating me from a person that is REALLY up shit's creek is that I have a lot of close friends, and I think that at least two of them would let me borrow a pot if I really needed one, under the condition, of course, that I would wash it before I returned it.
If you have never been under INTENSE financial stress, allow me to describe it to you. In short, it is a consistent state of anxiety and fear. You are afraid to the answer the phone. It could be a bill collector. You don't check the mail. It could be full of bills. The same feeling you get in your stomach when you have to call you OB/GYN for your pap test results is the same feeling you have when you have to call the IRS and BEG them to reinstate your payment plan.
Time flies. When I was a 2nd grader, I used to entertain myself by counting on my fingers how old I would be in five years, ten years, etc. I would get excited, thinking of myself at 21. I would be rich and married to one of the members of Immature. Well, me and Romeo never made a love connection and I am now in my mid-30s. And no, I don't play that add-up-the-years game anymore. If I count forward 50 years, I don't see me dancing in an Immature video. I see me in a nursing home that smells of poop. It's the only place that will take me because I didn't have a savings, and it is the only place my poor people insurance will cover. The nurses will smoke cigs and blow the smoke in my face. I will spend days on end in my soiled diapers. And, perhaps worst of all, the only beverage option I will have with my pureed dinner is UNSWEETENED TEA!
I try to complain about this to P, but he is a "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" type of man. He just doesn't get it. I had to throw my last pair of boots away, the ones I had had for 12 years, because I could no longer plug up the holes in them with toilet paper.
My minister did a sermon about how bad times are good. You have to go through things so you will be prepared for what God has in store for you at the end of the rainbow. As hungry as I am for a change in my life, I better be able to taste this rainbow.
Enough belly aching for now. I have to go but my empty wallet next to my Bible and see if God can create a water-to-wine situation.

Excited

I just ended a stint as a substitute teacher at a daycare. It was fun, sitting and playing legos all day with 2-year-olds. One of the teachers in the class was this statuesque 24-year-old babe that just graduated from college. I noticed that she kept her phone close to her, chronically checking it for something. Oh, how I remember the chronic cellphone check.
"I think she is excited, waiting on a guy to text her," I told Bells over a nice Mexican dinner. She was in town visiting her sister.
"Oh, I remember that," Bells said, nostalgically.
Watching Babe Teacher hold on to her phone for dear life, I realized that it has been a long time since I have been excited about a guy. There was that crush I had on that guy in my writing group, but that fuzzed out. I do believe that I have finally run out of excited-about-a-guy juice. I go on and on about how much I would love a man hug, but truth be told, I am not looking for anyone and I am sure that no one is looking for me.
But it is nice to be excited about a guy, waiting on his text, thinking of witty responses to whatever it is that he is going to say. When I am looking at my phone these days, it is just to check what time it is.
Right now, I'm more excited about the day that I finally get up the energy to defer my student loans and work on my credit. At 34, I can see 40 clear from here, and if I don't get my coin in order, I will be living in a cardboard box under the freeway. My good friends will come visit me every Sunday to bring me canned goods and baby wipes.
One day, I do hope to get excited about a man again, but for now, I have to find joy in writing disputes to TransUnion over what is on my credit karma report. Yay!

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotifyless Mind

Poverty has taken a lot from me over the past three years. My apartment. My independence. My ability to maintain an above negative balance in my checking account. But at the beginning of the month, poverty took something from me that I need to survive; that is the very power source of my existence. Poverty has finally taken away my Spotify Premium. It has happened people! I can no longer afford the $10 a month.
Last night, I had no other choice but to go to Youtube for my musical needs. It was horrible. I haven't gone on Youtube to listen to music since I was like 25. All my playlists are outdated and come with like a million commercials. The blast from the past of it all was too much. While listening to some early ASAP Rocky, I thought that I could actually hear my old roommate having sex in the next room over.
2019 has to bring me wealth and wealth and more wealth, because there is now officially nothing else my poverty can take from me, unless I finally get the medical okay to cell my organs and eggs. Come New Year's, I will be praying, eating greens, dancing on the arm of the freeway with an empty tin can for tips- anything I need to do to make some money. Because Mama draws a line at trying to live her life without the aid of a commercial-free soundtrack. It really is too much!

Stress Forgetfulness

I suffer from stress forgetfulness. I don't know if this is a real thing that doctors recognize, but I have noticed it about myself and have given it a name.
Due to my recent bout of stress and anxiety, I forgot to take down my two-strand twists for a week and a half. Not. Good. I spent all of this morning detangling my hair. I am sure that if I would have waited another day, I would have dreadlocks.
There is a very important bill that I have to pay. It was due on the 10th, and I have been walking around with the envelope and money order in my purse since before then.
The worst thing that my stress forgetfulness has caused me to do is forget to call my student loan provider to let them know, AGAIN, that I am broke and unable to make payments. But it's okay. They called Transunion who then called Credit Carma who then emailed me and let me know that, as punishment for not returning that stream of endless calls, my score has dropped. I'M PISSED! I had just gotten to Needs Work! I'm now at Needs A Life Line.
I wish I could just stand at the top of the highest mountain and yell, "HEY! I HAVE BEEN GOING THROUGH SOME TOUGH STUFF! STUFF SO HORRIFYING THAT IT HAS CAUSED ME TO LASP INTO BOUTS OF AMNESIA! CAN THE WORLD REFRAIN FROM KICKING ME UNTIL I CAN AT LEAST REMEMBER TO TRY TO GET MY LIFE NOT TO SUCK?!
Unfortunately, that is not the way of the world. I wish I could forget to cry over the state of things.

Financially Fatigued

Hello readers.
I write to you tonight as I hide under my comforter with my phone on silent. I am dodging a creditor.
My whole blogging career, I have been pretty open about my brokey brokeness, just so the young brokies, that should really be reading a Suze Orman book, would understand the struggle. The struggle that is, in fact, real. But, to be honest, the only thing the struggle is at this moment in time is real old.
My philosophy over the years has been honesty with creditors. They call, I answer, and we discuss payment options and dates and income and all the uncomfortable things that come with a creditor call. But it seems that after my last call with a creditor, which was no different than others, I became unable to take another one. I physically can not even force myself to reach for the phone and answer them. After a few missed calls and messages, I realized that it all came down to one thing: I just don't have the energy or the wherewithal to tell yet another creditor that I don't have money. I can't fix my mouth to do it. Seriously. I tried to do it yesterday and just ended up screaming.
At this point, I can't even believe that the creditors believe me when I tell them I'm penniless. Who stays broke for five years that doesn't have a serious problem? Now that I think about it, I guess you could consider my general attitude and terminal sadness a serious problem.
The unfortunate thing is that I know how this story ends. If I don't get it together and return these calls fast, my already struggling credit score will become jeopardized, which means I will not only have to dodge calls but also my Credit Carma alerts. Yes, my score will just go down and down and down until I will have nothing to look forward to but pre-paid phones and the roommate life over 40. Both things are enough to cause me to act urgently.
But tonight, I hide. If you want to reach me, send me a telegraph. I'm not taking calls, understandably.

Trudy: The Student Loan Post

I woke up to a missed call from my student loan people.

I guess they just wanted to let me know that my payment is due after coming out of yet ANOTHER deferment or I.O.U. or layaway or whatever the hell.
If I had one wish in the world, I would wish to be given a boatload of untaxable, no-strings-attached money. And the first thing I would do with that money is pay off my student loans.
And here is the sad part: my mother took out a whole bunch of Parent Plus Loans for my million dollar education, so what I owe really isn't that much compared to my friends. But what is a dollar owed in the mind of a homeless man who has nothing? Exactly.
If I could give my student loans a name, I would name them Trudy. In my mind, Trudy is this girl that wears clothes in weird patterns that did me a real solid back when I was 18: she loaned me thousands of dollars to get an education, little to no questions asked. She was content with my promise to pay her back.
Now that I am out of school, I run into Trudy about every three months, and man, do those three months fly by.
"Holly Clay, is that you?" she yells whenever she sees me. She knows it's me.
"Hey Trudy girl!" I always say, primarily because there is no use in running. She knows my phone number and where I live. Plus, she is actually pretty nice. She is just annoying and a constant reminder of my failures.
"So what's new?" Trudy asks genuinely.
"I don't have your money, I swear! And I know I have been saying I would pay you back for ten years, but I swear to God, I don't have it!" I scream.
And Trudy just smiles her understanding smile. "It's all good Holls. I get it, life happens. I'm going to give you three months to get your life together. Just fax me a letter that says you are broke, and we can talk in the spring."
Thankful, I cry on her shoulders for about five minutes before she hugs me goodbye, eager to make her Brazilian wax appointment.
This dance with Trudy has become maddening and exhausting. And sometimes, late at night while I brainstorm how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents, I fantasize about moving and changing my name without letting Trudy know. However, Trudy told me once when I jokingly told her this plan that if I ever tried to do something like that she would call her husband, Mr. TransUnion, and ruin. my. life. I wouldn't have the credit to move into a tent city, forget my dreams of home ownership!
"One of the three little pigs wouldn't even build you a house," she whispered in my ear through clenched teeth.
I believe her.
Tomorrow I am going to be humble, sit down, and give Trudy a ring ding. I will do some of the moves I learned from my Yoga for Senior Citizens class to emotionally prepare. But really, what is the best way to emotionally prepare for having to negotiate time to pay back an outrageous amount of money? Exactly. 

Level 0

My girl Roma was updating me about her life, and she said that she talks to our mutual friend, Jamaica, on a regular basis. This made my eyebrow raise, seeing that I am hard pressed to get Jamaica on the phone, and further satisfied a suspicion that I had that she has been avoiding me.
I think it best that I remind you all, before I go on, that I have a habit of taking clues that may not exist to solve issues that aren't real. I make things up in my head and run with them, especially in regards to my friends, because I am insecure, especially when it comes to my friendships. I know, I know, it's not an attractive quality.
One of my insecurities stems from not being where I want to be financially in life. Friends like Roma and Jamaica are stacking paper over my head by leaps and bounds. When I heard that Roma and Jamaica were in touch, I assumed that this is why. As silly as it may sound, you get hip to the way that people view you, for real, when you are broke, especially as broke as me.
People do not take brokeness well. They treat it sort of like a deadly flu they can catch from something as small as just hearing about your financial issues. There are also sub-issues that travel with brokeness, such as sadness, depression, anger, and self-pity. Low and behold, I suffer from ALL of these illnesses! Understandably, this makes me self-conscious, especially when interacting with my richy rich friends.
If you have lived a somewhat full life with females as friends, you should know by now that there are levels to friendships. I fear that for some, including Jamaica, that know what I have been through, I have plummeted to level 0. And I get it, like attracts like. I have always said that if I ever lose weight that I will dump my old, supportive friends that love me for superficial ones.
I digress.
As my friend talked, I used my Ghost Writer skills to put together a quick case. There could be a number of reasons that I have not heard from Jamaica. She has a high-pressure job; she could be busy. She has just moved; she may be tired. This made me feel better until I remembered that Roma had just told me that she and Jamaica talk all the time.
Before you ask yes, I am aware of how childish this is. There is no real proof, other than my emotions, that any of this is real. But to be honest, I have been waiting on Jamaica to friend dump me for some time. Brokeness is also the trigger for strife and negativeness. These are things that I suffer from that we ALL know are contagious.
As Roma spoke, I kicked myself for being so needy and emo. But, as needy and as emo as I often am, I am also often right. Call me psychic.

Outfielders

A friend of mine called me the other night to let me know that she'd gotten a new job...that she couldn't tell me about. And not because it was some top-secret government position, but because she was ashamed of it. The job had nothing to do with her field and was not associated in any way with what she studied in college.
"Are you serious?" I asked her. And she was, because she didn't tell me what her new job is. All I know is that it is legal and that she isn't stripping or working in fast food.
Needless to say, I thought that her attitude towards her new gig was ridiculous. As long as she was getting a paycheck, who cared, right? WRONG! I ran into a childhood friend on the way home from work the other night and asked her what she is doing now. She said that she is working at Phillip's Arena, the arena where the Atlanta Hawks play. Man, she looked humiliated, like she had just told me her deepest, most embarrassing secret.
That night, I sat and thought about her and my other "secret job" having friend. What was up with people being ashamed of getting paid? I asked myself. But then I had to kick myself off of my soap box and remember that, just three years ago, I was willing to go homeless before I got a job outside of my field. Even sitting on top of a mountain of bills and eviction notices, I just couldn't go put in an application at Wendy's. No really, my feet would not move! I literally could not do it! The way I saw it, I had not paid my dues at a job that sucked out all of my positive energy, nor had my mom gone into Parent Plus Loan debt on my behalf for me to just end up giving out samples at the mall.
So, here is the lesson that I am learning that I would like to share with my fellow "outfielders", or those of us working outside of our chosen fields: not every job has to be permanent. Don't allow your in-between time gigs to define you. If I hadn't had been so proud, I could still be living comfortably in my shithole townhouse with money I could have earned as a CVS cashier. But I'm not, now knowing that a dollar is more important than my ego.
I know, I know, easier said than done. But just be warned, depending on how long you can go without quality food, you may be getting a "just for now" gig sooner than you think. It's okay. You are not alone. I know that this harsh truth is disappointing, but it is not the end of the world. Keep your head up outfielder! Fingers crossed, there is a less demeaning job around the corner.

The Terrible 29s 2: Emotions Make You Cry Sometimes: The Symptoms of Almost 30

I have always been an emotional person. I cry a lot. But since I turned the big 2-9, I must say, I spend a large amount of my day in tears. So many bills and so little time. So much stress. So much extra! When I am not shoving cookies down my throat I am whaling but I must say, I have gotten good at doing them both at the same time.

Question: Is this what being an adult is? As a child, I envisioned adulthood as hanging at the mall for as long as I wanted with my super pretty friends. Now I see it is more like trying not to curse while making a payment plan with AT&T. I am almost 30 and nowhere near where I thought that I would be. Nowhere near. Where is my house and my luxury vehicle and my super long hair and my marriage to Marlin Wayans (don’t judge me)?

It has been suggested to me that I should go to a shrink but there is no need: I know why I am crying. There is so much that I really want to do in life and for some reason, I feel like I am running out of time! When I felt the clock starting I was in college, dancing on stage at my favorite night club. As I feel the speed increasing, I find myself on my bedroom floor, doing my taxes myself because I can’t afford to go to H&R Block.

I don’t want to be a kid again but I don’t want this. At what point do I get to exhale and buy a cocktail that won’t take my checking account into a spiral into the negative? 40? 50? Or is this feeling of deep panic, fear, and uneasiness the tight shoe that we have to get used to wearing as we glide into middle age? If someone could text me the answer while I am on hold with Chase that would be great.

Sincerly, Financially Distressed

I am going out of town.
I have to pay the power bill and for my Internet.
I literally had to rebudget my budget to be able to afford some Dove (I know I could get cheaper soap, but Dove makes my skin feel all babyish).
Yet, I find, that I have gotten to the point that I am like F it, I'm broke, I'm tired, and I want to spend money that I don't have on a half of a gallon of ice cream, so whatever.
I mean, if I become any more stressed over money than I already am, I swear to God, I will friggin' hurl, I'm not joking! The least I can have, to get me through this dollarless limbo, is some ice cream. I feel like that is only fair.

Mixed Priorities

Yesterday, my mom picked me up to take me to an event for my job. I was super happy to see her because she brought me food and I am broke, lol. Any way, I get into the car and she shows me that she has gotten a new phone that was $79 bucks!
It took everything in me not to drop my mouth opens. Recently, she was approved for some government assistant which my family desperately needed. My mom has been unable to find work for the past two years. So she was approved for a stipend, but it is VERY little. I feel like she could have done so may wiser things with the dough, like get my siblings some new clothes or something.
But shockingly enough, that is not what really bothered me. My brother is in college and he was not approved for work-study. He can not find a job. She could be sending him cash, seeing that all last year I sent him $100 a month! On top of that, I am literally living hand to mouth with NO disposable income at all. The week before I get paid, I munch on Ramen Noodles and water, yet I still manage to pay my brother's cell phone bill. I decided that that is a bill that I am going to send her way seeing that she has the dough and I am strugglin'.
Looking at her new, shiny phone, I couldn't believe my eyes. But I didn't say anything. She just brought me food after all and was doing me a favor by dropping me off. I have to find the right time to tell her. Sigh, I know that she is going to make a scene. I just don't think this is fair.

Bad Morning

I can already tell that today is going to be a bad day because my morning is NOT getting off to a good start.
I woke up to discover that since I deposited my check yesterday, I won't be able to have access to my funds until Tuesday morning, after the holiday. Thus, I can not pay my rent...or my phone bill...or buy food! So on this Sunday, which I had previously planned to be AWESOME, I will just be sitting here in my room broke and hungry and come tomorrow, without phone service.
I called my bank and found out the bank has signed me up for overdraft protection, which I told them I didn't want. I know the game- find a way to charge me outrageous fees. The telephone banker tried to convince me that I could make purchases, even though I don't have any cash. Sounded weird to me. I felt like I was getting played, which also ruined my mood.
It isn't even 8:30AM and my mood has already gone south. To try to cheer myself up, I am watching Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Hulu, but I have to say, I don't see this morning turning around, not unless I open the door to find a stack of hundreds.