That Which Does Not Kill You, Only Makes You Stronger (Try Telling That To a Person With a Stab Wound)

For 2 weeks now, I have been sitting cross-legged, desperately waiting for Grad School to cash my moderately obscene deposit check and thereby confirm that they have received my acceptance of their acceptance of my application. The money is still sitting in my bank account, festering away and not being spent on rum or books or those adorable metallic ballet flats that I saw in DSW. Every time I check my balance and realize its still there, my left eye twitches a bit harder. To say money burns a hole in my pocket is a gross understatement. To say my Chili’s budget alone is close to $1000/year is closer to the truth.

And this is just a taste of what’s to come. I’ll be going to school full-time in the fall and hopefully have the first of two required internships, so it would be really, really peachy if I didn’t have to work. At all. If I have the slightest chance of doing that, now is the time to stuff my purse full of cash and not let it out. Even when I can hear its muffled screams for a merciful shopping spree, I will continue to chant the five pillars of my new existence: food, shelter, transportation, health insurance, textbooks.

Though it may get tricky when the time comes and my purse strings are tied even tighter against the leering gaze of my favorite bar, for now I’m actually looking forward to this as a challenge. In my emo adolescence, I would often stare longingly past my stereo and towering music collection and out the window of our lovely suburban townhouse wishing my upper middle class family was less fortunate. It’s so easy to use Dad’s credit card for lavish amounts of clothing. Where’s the drama in that? Where’s the glamour? Where’s the poverty stricken but quietly ambitious child graciously sharing a bowl of peas with her fifteen siblings and then huddling next to a wood stove for warmth? No, no. Living in the lap of luxury was far too average. I knew it would never make for a decent introduction to the movie based on my life story. But welfare might.

Of course, now I have the opportunity to fulfill that foolish day dream, now that I’m quite sure that spending Daddy’s money on designer hand bags is ABSOLUTELY better than the poor house. I have my chance to embrace my impending pennilessness as another adventure to chronicle in my eventual memoir. I will keep that in mind months from now when I’m subsisting on Ramen noodles and doing my homework in a cardboard box down by the river.