Fuck– I gotta get gas. Money down the drain. Gas is too fucking expensive. I hear there’s an oil boom in North Dakota; domestic production is gonna outstrip imports and we’re closer to energy independence. Great, I’m sure we can all expect gas prices to drop real soon.
But, fuck it. Who cares. I have no money, and I don’t give a shit. I have no wife; I have no kids; I have no ailments. Whatever education I need I’ll get off Wikipedia. I have cheap internet so I can beat off and a bigass package of Von’s brand assorted chicken parts for 87 cents a pound. What more do you need. My car cost twelve hundred bucks and if it breaks I’ll buy another one for even less. You can buy an old car for how much fixing a scratched bumper costs on a new car. The Cubans are onto something; you can keep these old beasts running forever. High priced liquor is bullshit; all alcohol is caustic poison and it all tastes like ass. So Von’s store brand brandy at 6 dollars a quart is just fucking fine. They give it some fancy Dutch name, Van Der Hobo or some shit. Getting drunk on it feels just as good.
You think you want money, but what you really want is pussy. You think money gets you pussy, but– look at guys with money. The pussy they get is weird, square mercenary girls; girls from good upbringings, girls who insist on their OKCupid profiles that any man who messages them should have a stable job. You whore– why don’t I insist on my profile that you suck my dick on a toilet on the first date. Or maybe “whore” is a little harsh but anybody who gives a shit about their date’s money is a guaranteed bore. You never hear anything about romantic life out of careerists except “I have a great job and own my own home, why can’t I find a nice relationship?” Because you see it as another work project. I have the qualifications, sir, and I have the degree, and my division’s numbers are looking to exceed benchmarks next quarter– why can’t I get that promotion? Why can’t I have a girlfriend? Because you spent your life making yourself look good on paper. And you can’t fuck paper. Or you can, but it chafes.
Guys with money get boring girls, girls who are inwardly put off by the guys constantly bragging about their work and money but stick around against their instincts, against their hearts, the way people sit through a boring econ class because they’re gonna need to get into a top 20 MBA school. They stick around because their parents told them that’s what they wanted. Boring men have money. Boring girls chase money. Let that whole corner of society go do its own thing. Their clean houses and new cars are ridiculous. Massaging seat rests and heated cup holders; useless shit that’s gonna break and sit in a landfill.
The reality is, the people who fuck the most are poor people. Villagers rawdogging in some malarial slum by the equator; thugged out 14 year old gangbangers out of The Wire impregnating young ass. Shitty indie bass players squatting in big rotten houses in Echo Park making five an hour under the table to clean glasses at the Echo. What these men lose in gold, they make up for in pussy. Ask yourself: what is the real treasure. When you are on your deathbed, will you think: thank God I paid the extra two grand for the undercoat and the heated in-seat back massager. Or will you think about the dewey eyes of the community college girl after your shitty band’s show; her lips. She was dumb but she liked good movies. There’s something to admire about everybody.
It’s expensive to live, but really, it’s mostly just rent unless you get sick. It’s a livable situation to be without money. It’s an unlivable situation to be without pussy. You feel untouchable, unlovable– you look so alien-ugly in the mirror you feel like you dropped acid. I better make some money, you think. I better make something of myself, and then a girl will want to be with me. Why not skip the middleman. If a girl wants to be with you, you must have made something of yourself already.