I don’t have much in my wallet.
Maybe 25 cents.
I have a little bit more in the bank.
Like 50 cents.
I don’t have vaults full of lonely money, I don’t have stocks or bonds.
My car might get repossessed any day, I’m chained to a theatrical marionette show of when I might get paid, and the CEO’s are drinking their Mint Juleps at the racetrack and wondering how much money they can waste on a horse who will eventually die of overuse and neglect.
I have laughs and love and passion and sex, but I can’t buy you dinner. Or even coffee.
This commoner has the clothes on her back and the ideas in her head, but the 800 numbers that call at 8am want $300 a month. Of their own fees.
We see the Occupiers get assaulted while the corporations that have dragged us down into this pit of despair steal the shovels and spit on the open graves.
Go to school.
Pay $125,000 in student loans for a non-guaranteed job.
Find a job.
Pay hundreds in work clothes and gas money for minimum wage.
Sell your self.
It’s the oldest profession.
We are drowning in coin, the weight bearing down on our chests. Inhale, exhale. Smell the freshly minted money off the press. You know you want to. Pump the oxygen into the casino, throw down $20 here and there, you won’t miss it.
You don’t need friends or family or affection or love or pets or a life or a soul.
You need a job.
One that steals your time, your energy, and anything you have ever cared about.
So all you end up with is lonely money.