As I write this, I’m sitting on my childhood futon, sans the futon hardware—just cushy, mildew-y comfort, drinking a Key Stone Light and eating Saltines. If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m poor. Poor, poor, poor. I’m living the life of luxury in the Old North End of Burlington, Vermont, my mother’s dish towels hanging on the walls, my pantry only home to flour, sugar, vanilla, oatmeal and ramen noodles.
But it’s entirely my own fault, living in this squalor. You see, I just spent the past semester in Perugia, Italy, with my parents credit card tucked safely into my wallet. Then the summer money I worked so hard for, bussed so many tables for, dissipated pretty quickly over there in the land of da Vinci and pancetta.
And thus began the digging—digging myself into a pretty deep hole of shit: of scary debt collectors, frightening bill statements and depressing account balances as I charged, charged, charged on my card. 20 shots of tequila? CHARGE IT. 50 pairs of tights. That's why these goddamn cards exist. So that’s where I’m at on this frigid February 4, 2010, in my tiny house with barren pantry walls.
I’m going to attempt to work off my credit card debt (oh, you know, totaling around $ 4,000) and enjoy the Burlington bars and get straight A’s and find a job. Holla.
