It seems like a significant number of American’s have not been hit too hard by the recession. I realize I have already mentioned the economy a child’s handful amount of times (the equivalent of a wool coin pouch full of expired M&M’s in the Easter pastel palette), but I am inclined to blog about it further. Blog. That word must mean “thought-word make out session” or “resulting fetus of thought-word sex” because I am thinking aloud and putting such thoughts into words without the use of a writing utensil. I don’t use writing utensil’s because they are a crutch on the road to recovery of something I don’t feel like identifying at the moment.
I am by no means homeless yet, I do have a job, heat & hot water in my apartment and can afford food every now and then. When I can’t buy food I either steal it or am sustained by the promises of hope that were spoon-fed to us by our most gracious and wise Messiah, Barack Obama. I haven’t learned to appreciate the taste of bullshit yet so I prefer to buy and cook my own food instead of dealing with the diarrhea that results from believing a promise that farts it’s way out of D.C. Moving on.
I too, am feeling the effects of this unstable economic decline. I am literally living paycheck to paycheck now and I need new brake pads on my car for one thing. One time, someone in a Yahoo chatroom told me brakes are a pretty important part of safe driving. People never lie in chatrooms. You should see my car. I got it in 2006, shiny and as suave as a Ford Escort ZX-2 can be (it can’t be). Now? Well, there is likely over a thousand dollars worth of repairing that needs to be done. The outside looks about as sexy as the actual STD chlamydia:
See? That is what my car essentially looks like. I don’t care about others seeing me in it, I just get embarrassed for having it because I have it and it looks like I bought it from www.ebay.landminevictims.com/3rdworldautos. The front looks like Zeus went into a rage, hammered New Hampshire with lightning bolts and every single one slammed into my windshield. Maybe I should submit my shame-on-wheels to “Pimp my Ride”. Though, it’d likely just piss my car off. I don’t want you to pimp my ride, Xzibit, I want you to replace my ride. That or I want some stimulus money. 100 million dollars so I can film an elaborate destruction music video starring my car and the villain “Hexus” from Fern Gully. Oh, and apparently, Chlamydia loves to roller blade and has a Frida-inspired unibrow. No wonder everyone hates it. Just get that handsome std some ripped, booty-choker stonewash jeans, a mullet and it’ll secure it’s place as the most hated and unfashionable thing in the history of the deservedly disdained.
Sometimes I wonder why I can’t seem to get ahead in life, financially speaking. When things are going well, it is usually an indication that something bad and/or expensive is about to hit. It’s as if there is some abstract force that will not let me rise past a certain point. A prevalent theme throughout my life. The Universe, for some reason, wants me to struggle again. And again. And again. “It builds character!” they say. Well “they” can easily be identified as those who have never been poor, or the poor who are in denial about the shittiness of being poor. Let’s call the group “P.O.O.P.”. Acronyms don’t have to make sense anymore.
Also, I would love to have a real mattress instead of the air mattress I currently use that deflates throughout the night. I miss the mattress I had out in Arizona. Pillow tops rock. Muffin tops do not. If you know what muffin tops are (nothing to do with mattresses), then I owe you a high five over the internet.