it makes a whore out of you.

The closest thing I’ve found to personal space the entire Summer has been the table at the coffeeshop I’ve been working at, where, even there, I’ve found that I’ve had to leave a fraction of my plastic cup filled with watered down iced coffee in order to avoid some self-obsessed tortoise-shell Ray Ban wearing drip slurping away at an extra large frozen vanilla chai from coming over and asking if I was done.

Even now, I have some battered-up girl with platinum eyelashes hovering over me as she nibbles away on her first of three Captain Crunch marshmallow squares.

At home, leftover scraps of ripped-up beer labels are scattered on the floor. They’ve been there for a week at least and the dishes in the sink have been there for a week longer. Crumbs have found their way into my bedroom and under my inflatable mattress. I’m sleeping next to a hamper. The cedar blocks in my closet are no longer working. I used to be in a position where I’ve been able to run away from it all and go to my guy’s house, but since he’s been gone, I’ve been barely managing to get around on my own while still holding my breath and figuring that at some point we’d all buckle down together to figure it out; but as it stands: my roommates are busy as hell and doing incredible things so really, how could you ask for more than that?

because of my own brand of neurosis, sleeping has become the least enjoyable aspect of my day and I’ve had to escape from my home to feel comfortable.

And that costs money. More than anticipated. I figure at any given point I’d be able to go about my day on $6 only- $3 for 1 coffee, $1 for 4 dumplings, $2 for two slices of pizza, and give or take an extra dollar if I wanted to pay up for a yoga class filled with wanna-be Gumbys in Under Armour who figured being as loud as possible when exhaling meant being talented and gifted in the art of standing on their arms. For the most part, they never raise their knees off the mat during their sun salutation, so the idea of them having bad joints when they’re older keeps me at bay. When I can’t afford that I take a run on the Williamsburg Bridge alongside Hasidic Jews dressed fully in their skirts and button downs and sequined cardigans and blast the same playlist of M83 and M.I.A.

Dinner. About 4 times a week. Lunch. About 5 times a week.

So, I’ve been trying to be resourceful, and I’ve been literally doing anything people might need if it meant they’d pay me enough to get by another two days or so. Chances are though, I’d take that money assuming that I was well off, and as a result, go out and party on 2 Genesee Tall Boys.

I’ve figured that working for extra play is better than taking it away from my personal savings any day. Obviously, I suppose. It’s an awful way to look around about things, but for whatever I reason, I get behind the immediate value of a crisp twenty in my wallet more than I do if it’s in my bank account. Should that twenty gone straight to my savings account- great. That’d be solid, I’d be in twenty more for that point between Graduation and retirement where I’d be paying off loans the entire time. I feel the urge to rather spend whatever I find inside my wallet if only because I can tell immediately how much I’d have left. With my debit card, I dunno. I guess it feels a bit different. I don’t know how much I’m playing with, so I’m more terrified to ever use it. Every swipe is a gamble against humiliation; the other day I prayed that my card would go through for a 6-inch sub at Subway for 2.49. Shit went through. But that moment where I can’t breathe is more than enough to make me never wanna play with what I can’t see. And that realization makes me wanna go out and forget about it all- whether it be with a drink or two or a cup of froyo or a splurge that’ll empty out my cash pocket all at once.

So, I’ve been taking cash only. Because I’ve been finding the urge to splurge I’ve realized I’m best off keeping track entirely of the money I’m spending, and because I’ve always been more aware with cash- I’ve been existentially whoring myself for any gig requiring heavy lifting or sitting of any kind.

Some of it’s been working. Some of it’s been miserable. I might’ve gotten thirty dollars for 3 and a half hours of heavy lifting and vacuum cleaning in the Summer Rain. That went through for the weekend and was 30 more than I had originally intended to spend.

Kitty-sitting is great pay, though.

Then I see listings for sperm donations (For ‘$$$$’).

Sometimes I tell myself that It’ll all be worth it in the end- you know, understanding the value of a dollar and the value in trying to get all your crap in order before you decide to commit yourself to a Summer in the city. Maybe I’ll end up being the most frugal out of all my friends and sheepishly shy away from Brad’s and head on over to the Library and frolic in the rows and get drunk off words and academia. This excites me. Slightly.

Sometimes, in order to save money from cat sitting, I walk down from 58th street and 6th Avenue all the way down to 2nd and Avenue C. I walk past a bunch of well-suited men and towers of glass and steel and nonsensical lighting. I’m blasting something along the lines of  The Field or Frankie Rose. I get excited that I’ll have an extra tight ass that night considering I’ve only eaten two slices of pizza and I’m walking home 4 miles before going for a run on the bridge. I get excited of soon making real money and being able to have real meals and have real savings and have real nights out.

But then as I’m rounding about onto 2nd Street, I realize that there’s no way I’m gonna have the energy to run across that bridge with an entirely empty stomach. Then I realize that’s not anticipation or excitement I’m feeling, it’s hunger. So then I get something. And I look at it. And I feel despicable because I figure it’s about 20% sanitary. And I feel awful because I’ve broken my five into 3 singles. And I feel scared because that’s gonna have to be all I work with the next day.

And then I go for a run on the bridge and usually take a breather at the middle of it all where I’m able to see the East River bend towards downtown. I realize Manhattan’s not as linear as its grid system suggests. Still though, the view is breathtaking. I plug my headphones back in and run down towards the opposite end. I pick up speed as I run downhill. Always do. Suppose that’s the optimism of it all. When you don’t got much, you always speed up.

Whoops.

Advertisements

thoughts.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s