Mmkay kids, I’m going to be real honest with you right now.
If you call me within the next few months and my life is largely similar to how it is today, and you ask me to go have dinner or drinks or take in a movie or an Il Dolce gelato…I gotta tell ya, I’m going to have to say no. No hem, no haw; just a good ol’ fashion, cut to the chase, grow-a-pair-and-just-say-it: NO.
It’s not you though. It’s me.
And I’m not breaking up with you I SWEAR; it’s seriously not like that. I just think I need some time alone to think about where I am…you know, in life. Don’t say I’m bullsh*tting you, and don’t think my feelings for you have changed. This is simply a matter of personal need; a sabbatical from dating if you will, and when I say “dating” I mean “hanging out in any capacity that isn’t entirely and absolutely free.”
Because OH YES THAT’S RIGHT MY FRIENDS…
Frankie is in the Poorhouse.
I am using this blog-post to turn a private matter public; to make all y’all who think pestering me to order another Riesling or join you at Benvenuti’s is a harmless pastime feel dreadfully bad right now. I know you mean well. I do. Especially all of you who took to kidnapping me following the Demonic Day of Doom; I truly appreciate it and probably needed it (though I did not need all those Oreos). But from this point forward, it’s over. This madness of spending - this constant hemorrhaging from my savings has GOT TO END. I just can’t take it anymore.
I’m a graduate student, people. A Full. Time. GRADUATE STUDENT. And yes, OU is paying me to go to school, but let me assure you they aren’t shelling out 6-figures for me to sit on my ass in the Gaylord library and Facebook all the livelong day. Life ain’t that sweet I’m afraid. And yes, I have enough money to pay rent and purchase groceries and buy my 18-bajillionth lip gloss when I’m feeling blue (or frisky). But that is the extent of it; that is where my fountain of funds runs dry. Theretofore, this seemingly unbreakable relationship between socializing and spending money simply cannot continue. It’s just not good for me (and it’s not good for you either, as I’m apt to completely lose it one day and snap you and your Chase Rewards Card in half).
In case you need proof, Example 1 of my Poordom: As of last week I was so financially strapped that I actually considered selling my blood plasma. My LIFE JUICE, for God’s sake! I got my latest hospital bill for the Boobotomy from Hell (another story for another day), and I thought to myself “yep…selling my bodily fluids.” That is just SAD.
(The only reason I’m not doing it is because of this right here. Be forewarned; it’s heinous and will make you want to tuck your fists up under your chin and never unbend your arms…ever, ever again.)
In case you need more proof, Example 2 of my Poordom: I was standing in the seemingly endless line at Victoria’s Secret, just itching to spend money on unmentionables for an upcoming lingerie shower. (When broke and newly single, it is a sheer delight to buy expensive panties for somebody else’s eminent marital-romps-in-the-hay. There’s simply no greater pleasure.) So I was standing there, and I heard the cashier say to her customer “did you try on the What’s-Its-Face bra today? If so, you get $5 off your purchase!” And I stopped, and I thought “hmmmm…what was the name of that bra again?” Because even though I’d stood in line for 7 years, and even though the last thing I wanted was to endure a personalized Victoria’s Secret bra-fitting (Satan!), I was actually considering popping out of line to try on the What’s-Its-Face bra. To save 5 dollars. FIVE. DOLLARS.
(I didn’t do it…I never could remember the name. Probably for the best though, because I used to work at Victoria’s Secret and those bitches are FIERCE. If they had figured out I was playing them, it’s likely they’d have strangled me with their hot pink measuring tapes.)
So I beg of you, comrades: don’t make fun of your friend Frankie the next time she orders a diet coke at The Library. And don’t get fussy when I have water on our coffee dates…and don’t glare at me and think I’m on a starvation diet when I order chicken broth for lunch. I’m not trying to be inconsiderate, and I’m definitely not aiming to be the next MK Olsen. I’m just poor. POOR, I say! Broke, impoverished, in need, without. POOR.
I have high hopes that my cash flow will pick up shortly; I landed my first freelance gig (PRAISE THE BABY JESUS!), and I have several summer job applications currently underway. But even if I can’t get out tha po’ house anytime soon, I assure you I’ll be fine. I’ve got this covered, so be cool bitch…be cool. As long as you’re willing to hang out with me in superawesome, no-riches-required capacities, my life will putter along happily as usual (just with a little less Chipotle and fewer new shoes). I love you, my dears. I truly do. But I believe in Dave Ramsey, and I’m going to try my damnedest to keep my 6 Month Emergency Fund alive. So please understand that I never meant to hurt you, but something’s gotta give. For I was born a poor black child…
But I have no intentions of dying that way.