Right now, Iâ€™m broke. Brokety-broke. Broke-diggity. I mean like, dust in my bank account, holy shit how am I going to pay my half of the mortgage kind of broke.
Itâ€™s my own faultâ€”obviously the money fairies didnâ€™t come nibble away at the pile of coins that used to glimmer so charmingly in the middle of one of Wells Fargoâ€™s finest vaults. I had money; I spent money. I neglected to set aside enough of a cushion to get me through the drought I saw coming, but how bad could that drought be? This year it was pretty bad for a whole host of reasons I just backspaced, because my temporary poverty is not very interesting.
What I think is more interesting is the fact that I have let myself fall into this state of benign neglect that I am having really an astonishing amount of difficulty shaking myself out of. Itâ€™s a cycle of the type you might call vicious, and itâ€™s starting to feel actually malignant.
I am too poor to leave the house, so I donâ€™t put on real clothes (EVER. Yay, freelancing!), and I donâ€™t fix my hair and I havenâ€™t worn makeup inâ€”well, itâ€™s been a long time. This slides down to the point where I rarely shower, which coincides with the fact that I havenâ€™t looked at myself in the mirror which means that my eyebrowsâ€”I can only imagineâ€”are taking up most of the real estate of my forehead and I have a handlebar mustache that does not suit me and my hair has become a birdâ€™s nest in eight different shades (sadly none of them are silver yet) and my fingernails look like they belong to an eight-year-old girl who plays Guerilla Soldiers in her backyard which is not necessarily a bad thing, except that I am a little bit vain about my hands because they are, like Joâ€™s hair, My One Beauty.
So I feel like a hot mess. Despite the fact that my worth as a human has nothing to do with the state of my eyebrows. There is something about the inability to maintain a personal grooming standard that goes beyond physical attractiveness and strikes right at the heart of my sense of self. And I dislike it.
Unfortunately I am helpless and hopeless at addressing my hot-messitude on my own, because thatâ€™s one of the problems I generally throw money at to fix andâ€”well, you know. So I canâ€™t leave the house. And I canâ€™t open up my own home-based escort service to pull in a little extra cash. So I sink lower and lower in my decrepitude but who cares, because my dogs love me even when I look worse than they do after a mud-puddle adventure and E almost never wrinkles his nose or looks away, aghast at what heâ€™s shackled himself to.
I keep swearing that the very first thing Iâ€™m going to do when I get a bucket of money is laser my name into the side of the moon. And THEN I am going to spend an ENTIRE DAY at a salon being told I am the most beautiful girl in the world both inside and out, in my soul and over every inch of my skin while they polish me to a high-gloss shine. But since I hate that shit, probably I will just go get my eyebrows fixed and my cuticles weed-wacked and try to pretend this never happened. Come soon, money. Come before someone actually sees me looking like this. I will wait for you in the shower.