8:50 am in Paris
So, its nigh on 3 am, and I am awake, like a lunatic. However, the fact that is a reasonable morning hour in Paris gives me some comfort.
I am awake because I can’t sleep. Jesus, that sounds like an effing Vince Lombardi quote. (Be impressed I know who Vince Lombardi is). I can’t sleep because I am stressed out, a fact which, I am sure, is contributing to the growth of the latest spot on my face.
Spot is British for zit. Like so many British words, spot sounds so much more pleasing than its Yankee counterpart, even when the meaning is gross. I have tried to adopt Brit-speak for zit in my every day confabulations; alas, single-handedly bringing another culture’s slang into the American Mainstream (if I may flatter myself to be part of such a stream) has proved difficult.
I can’t sleep because I am worried about money—more specifically, my lack of it. I hate money insofar as it’s a v. easy thing to worry about, especially at 25. I could take heart that my whines are joined in chorus with thousands of other uppity Gen-Y’ers in the DC Metro Area moaning about the same bloody thing. But I don’t. The fact that I am conforming via complaint with the Facebook jerks known as My Generation just makes me feel worse.
I also hate money because it’s v. hard not to resent those who have it. Sure, like any Good Person, I know cash doesn’t buy happiness, or class, or purpose, as the regulars in People magazine prove daily. But damn, it sure would make it easy to go on vacation. Or buy clothes that actually fit when, say, yours hang off you like a hobo because you’ve lost weight from stress cause you sure as hell aren’t working out.
I am bitter because I budget my income down to $20 spending cash per payday. I have forgotten what non-Target brand cosmetics feel like. I have grown weary of counting change to the irrigated Korean man at the corner shop when I want a sodding $1.59 Diet Coke (outRAGEous). And goddamnit, I don’t care if it makes me shallow, I want pants that hug my ass, and not hang off of me like Jared’s loose skin.
I could take heart by being thankful that I am not in Paris, where my $20 would buy rien (French for rien). But that is looking on the bright side, and I don’t care how late it is—I cannot let myself do that.
-mb, 1.25.08
I am awake because I can’t sleep. Jesus, that sounds like an effing Vince Lombardi quote. (Be impressed I know who Vince Lombardi is). I can’t sleep because I am stressed out, a fact which, I am sure, is contributing to the growth of the latest spot on my face.
Spot is British for zit. Like so many British words, spot sounds so much more pleasing than its Yankee counterpart, even when the meaning is gross. I have tried to adopt Brit-speak for zit in my every day confabulations; alas, single-handedly bringing another culture’s slang into the American Mainstream (if I may flatter myself to be part of such a stream) has proved difficult.
I can’t sleep because I am worried about money—more specifically, my lack of it. I hate money insofar as it’s a v. easy thing to worry about, especially at 25. I could take heart that my whines are joined in chorus with thousands of other uppity Gen-Y’ers in the DC Metro Area moaning about the same bloody thing. But I don’t. The fact that I am conforming via complaint with the Facebook jerks known as My Generation just makes me feel worse.
I also hate money because it’s v. hard not to resent those who have it. Sure, like any Good Person, I know cash doesn’t buy happiness, or class, or purpose, as the regulars in People magazine prove daily. But damn, it sure would make it easy to go on vacation. Or buy clothes that actually fit when, say, yours hang off you like a hobo because you’ve lost weight from stress cause you sure as hell aren’t working out.
I am bitter because I budget my income down to $20 spending cash per payday. I have forgotten what non-Target brand cosmetics feel like. I have grown weary of counting change to the irrigated Korean man at the corner shop when I want a sodding $1.59 Diet Coke (outRAGEous). And goddamnit, I don’t care if it makes me shallow, I want pants that hug my ass, and not hang off of me like Jared’s loose skin.
I could take heart by being thankful that I am not in Paris, where my $20 would buy rien (French for rien). But that is looking on the bright side, and I don’t care how late it is—I cannot let myself do that.
-mb, 1.25.08
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