Beautifully Broke

Matters of money, as with matters of love or getting fucked, will invariably ebb and flow. “ Feast or famine,” says my buddy Kenny with surety and conviction in his voice. In the meantime I count my crowns and pesos piled up in neat little rows like Bob Cratchett in the cold counting house through fingerless gloves in dumbfounded disbelief like some fucking dumb-ass idiot glancing at his pitiful excuse of a paycheck. I lay in bed watching MTV and VH1 as celebrity spender’s and trust-fund bitches jetset to exotic locales, snort coke, and wash down pills with chilled Cristal and my fridge is bare. I’m getting skinny now you know. Perhaps it’s the hours of blank jogging on my treadmill as my downstairs crack-head neighbor who looks like Grace Jones tippety-taps the ceiling with a broom. My cheekbones protrude and my veins stick out as if I’ve been reborn at sixteen years old. Too bad heroin-chic went out a decade ago. God, I hate being hungry. All I can afford at this point is my gym pass and a bottle of Ancient Aged I shoot alone as my landlord quietly listens by the door checking to see if I’m home cause I’m 2 months late on rent.