Monty always tells me “I don’t understand how you’re broke.” And really, “broke” to me is just a figure of speech. Broke has meant very different things at different points in my life, but I would confidently say that I’ve been broke since I left my mom’s house at the tender age of 17. And the broke I am right now is by no means as bad as some of the other brokes I’ve known.
Now that it’s far enough in the past that I can acknowledge it without cringing, I remember times I was so broke I didn’t know how I would pay for the train to get to work. I would scrounge for dimes and quarters, and sometimes trade in pennies at Randa’s Market (because BART does not accept pennies) hoping I could make the $8.25 it took to get to my job. I was so broke that my cousins gave me free squashes and I cooked and ate them for weeks on end. Month-long periods of living on a potato famine diet of root vegetables (onions are hella cheap). I would pay rent (late) and Walter’s walker and then wait out two weeks on like 80 dollars.
In those times, though, I still partied my face off. Rikki would come over with a pint of Bushmills and we’d lay on my kitchen table, with our heads hanging out the window, drinking whiskey, and chasing it with such things as peanut butter and/or orange slices, and making fun of our ridiculous lives. Or my cousins would take (they still take) pity on my poor soul and take me out. And let me pass out hung over on their couch and make me a frozen pizza because that is the best way to pick up my pieces. My broke in those days was not about choices – there were none. I had no money to buy food, no money to buy drinks, no money.
My current broke is defined by what I’m willing to sacrifice and where I’m willing to allocate my dollars. I can choose the way in which I am broke. I remember when I was in Chicago, living with my ex-boyfriend who was even more broke than I was, he would get a paycheck and spend it all on booze. And I would ask him, what the fuck is wrong with you, I can’t eat beer for dinner. And I would spend my money on things that seemed more reasonable, like burritos (which he would help me eat, obviously).
Now, I totally get it. When it comes down to the question am I eating dinner, or am I tying one on tonight, the answer is I’ll be having the vodka. Because if I’m working my ass off, and going all the time, and being a fiscally (semi) responsible non-burden on my parents, I will be pretty miserable if I never go out. I tried that in college. I was miserable. Experience taught me, now I know better.
I’ve hopped back on the highly ambitious, multi-job wielding, multi-interest pursuing hamster wheel and if I’m gonna do that shit, if I’m going to work hard, you better bet your fernet-loving ass I’m going to play hard.
Tags: booze, broke, bushmills, economy, entertainment, experience, Fernet, fiscal, humor, no money, rent
I never knew you were broke. Cept for when Walter got sick.
That’s why it’s a figure of speech. One would never know because I’m not really “broke.” I’m usually always having a good time by drinking boozes in brown bags. Fact.
february will be a ‘how do i get to work’ month for me, shit I am at an unacceptable age for this to still be occuring.
I don’t know why I don’t get notified of your comments anymore but I’ll send you some money you broke larbage.