I Don't Even Have This Much Money

I spent several hundred dollars this month on books. Book in Latin, books in Greek, books on archaeology, books on philosophy, funny novels, contemporary fiction - you name it, I bought it. Was October unusually hard on me? Maybe. Did I bury  my feelings of hopelessness and self-pity in the aisles of Powell's on 57th? Most certainly. Do I regret it? I probably should. My bank account does. The me that wants to jump on a plane and fly to the nearest anywhere does. The me that hasn't been grocery shopping since early September does. But the me that's writing this whilst taking a break from Black Boy does not.

Hey, what are credit cards for? Not this. Never this. However, when you're still doing things you shouldn't with one ex and you have late night phone conversations with another every week, you find yourself searching for something else. Some people are serious foodies and they have their own network. I find myself sitting around, finishing novels and wondering why I'm alone with jelly beans and Netflix. True, being around other humans is not my favorite thing to do, but it seems to be the thing to do these days. After all, wallowing in why isn't my job-relationship-apartment-wardrobe-travel schedule what I always dreamt it would be doesn't seem to be doing me any favors.

My new mission? Be happier. Fake it if I have to, but damn it, be happier. If I can attempt that, I'm sure Wells Fargo will thank me kindly.