It could be worse. But I'm sick to my stomach with debt. In one way, or another, I owe everyone I know.
Re-rechecking under couch cushions for enough coins to buy bread. Putting gas in the car in $3 increments. This isn't an interesting tale I'm sorry.
At least we have a welfare system. So I'm allowed to queue. Stand in a crooked lie of tarted up young mothers, old hunched men, the aggressive, the mad, and more and more like me, suited up.
Because the government gives me money, any money I make goes back to them. I had a 40hr week of work, no breaks, an admin job. Paid 18 bucks an hour, after tax, and giving welfare their share, I get $2 an hour. $2, when to buy a loaf of bread and carton of milk costs more than $10. One orange costs $1.50.
Everyone (anyone) who has a job is afraid. Working for less, longer hours, and you're supposed to feel lucky. No sauntering in late with a crumpled shirt. It's redundancy fever.
The situations vacant section of the overpriced newspaper has shrunk to a slim column. Most of these are "Ladies Wanted" ads, shiny euphemisms pressing through. No jobs in my area, nothing even close. Even cleaners need diplomas now.
The shop downstairs used to give me the pastries at the end of the day. Then they started charging $3. Then $5. Now they sell them stale the following day.
My computer has been stacked in the back of a pawn shop, with my boyfriend's cell and mp3 player. That's one of my excuses for not writing. If the pawn shop would have taken it, they'd have our TV too. I hate being a statistic. A boring, depressing, whiny statistic.
It's been so bloody long since I've bought a pretty dress.