OK, IT'S REAL

I'LL ADMIT IT. I didn't think much of this recession. BMWs still in the streets, and no babies floating in the river (and any parent who would throw their baby in the L.A. River is a special kind of sick), so to quote Sum, shut ya bloodclot whining. Well, today I see it like this: you can't eat a BMW, but you can eat a baby. So maybe it really is time to jumpstart the Westwood Baby project, even though I think we've missed the train for this Thanksgiving, even if two of us were to get started now. The fact that I have begun to subconsciously separate all the physical objects around me into what can, cannot, and could theoretically be eaten makes things plain. A man on talk radio was, um, talking about how his pet grooming service is on the skids the other day, and the host said people nowadays are more likely to eat their dog than pay to get it groomed. And truthfully, it does have me looking at my sisters' chihuahua/beagle in a different light. C'mon, you guys know you're tired of the little fucker.

Yep, I'm broke. No, I'm braowk. And while the last two weeks have been even more of a juggle than usual, the severity of my predicament didn't become clear to me until my grocery run this morning, which was inspired by a look in my refrigerator, whose contents then were:

limes (3)

garlic (cloves, 2)

unsweetened soymilk (half carton)

Greek peppers (half jar)

pasta sauce (quarter jar)

Korean quince tea sauce (jar)

South Indian mixed pickles (half jar)

barbecue sauce (half jar)

Some crunching of numbers thereafter, I concluded that a trip to the market was essential, even if it did mean some essential bills were going to remain unpaid by 5pm. They would have remained unpaid anyway, so hey. An hour later, I returned with

water (1 gallon)

corn flakes (1 carton)

oranges (3)

potatoes (5)

green beans (1 handful)

I prefer broccoli, but today's selection was all stem and no floret, and I can't be paying for all that dead weight.

salsa (1 jar)

tinfoil (1 roll)

paper towels (2-pack)

total: $14.06

I think I was pondering buying toilet paper AND paper towels or just paper towels since they're good for, you know, everything, when I realized I was at probably one of the lowest points in my 30 years of life. Which means I'm not having such a bad life. But still. Then I ran into Janet, who told me she went to sleep at 8:45pm last night because she had nothing to eat. The final straw was the news that Coppelia's has raised the price on their rotisserie chicken from $5.95 to $7.95. Granted, six bones for a succulent winged lizard was such a good deal that it bordered on the suspicious, but I still feel violated.

The term 'overdraft' is one that I remember hearing a lot in my household from as far back as memory serves me. Even hearing the word reminds me of my old Paddington Bear bedsheets. Debt is a fact of life - at least, a fact of MY life - and ultimately I'm at peace with my load. I live alone; single income, and nobody to split costs with. I'm self-employed and a bit daft, so a lot of my money goes into promotional projects that at least in the short-term seem ill-advised at best, like going even deeper in the hole to press up a shit-ton of copies of a record called Bankruptcy, and giving it away for free. Section 102.88 of The Hustler's Code says "a bad week only means you're one week closer to a good one", so next time I see you I may be back to my usual self, laying on a pile of bacon and avocado paninis while a buxom woman tries to aim truffles into my open mouth. But as for today, I'll sign off, as I think my potatoes are almost ready.