Tuesday, May 23, 2006


When I told my Dad (that’s Grandpa, to you) that I was moving out onto my own, his first reaction was, “DON’T”! This might seem like a strange reaction to those of you that don’t know my family or my history with financial incompetence. You see, I’m a good person. I vote. I recycle (when not living in a city that punishes people for recycling). I try to help others whenever I can, but I can’t seem to manage a household budget to save my ever-loving life. Lately, there hasn’t been enough money to stretch from one paycheck to another.

My Dad knows this about me. Hell, my whole family knows this about me. Money is my number 1 stress point. He didn’t want me to move out because he didn’t want to deal with me worrying about money. There is one thing to know that you are poor, there is a whole other thing to be constantly worried about money to the point that it makes yourself and your family sick (of you).

I’m going to have to ask for help. I hate asking for help almost as much as I hate being hungry. In fact, I think I’m the opposite of an anorexic – I don’t punish my body by not eating, I punish myself for my weaknesses by stuffing my face. Food is one of my only comforts and my greatest source of guilt. Why worry about affording the really expensive, far-away daycare when there are brownies to be eaten, ice cream to gorge myself on, and frivolous purchases that I can torture myself with?

I either have to put Zac into a less expensive daycare, turn off my phone, stop using the dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer, acclimate to an indoor temperature of 87 degrees, or impale myself on a sharp stick. All of these options sound mildly interesting at this point and they are all up for discussion.

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