I’m on the Brink of 30 and Broke

Dear Saturday Night,

My birthday is June 6th. I’m going to be 30, and it’s 2017, so you do the math if you care what year I was born. So there’s the “date” everyone has each year, and it’s not with a significant or potential significant other. No, it’s much more complex. It’s TAX RETURN FILING. Now, if you’re a steady-eddy W2 filer who hasn’t fucked around too much all year, you send your shit to an accountant or to TurboTax and await a nice paltry sum from the IRS so you can either pay off the fucking Christmas credit card debt or plan some little vaca for you and BAE.

Well, some of us happen to collect W2s from multiple states, because like, Daddy still “employs” us from the East Coast. Now, as a California resident, apparently you just have to pay more in state income tax than the Joe Shmo’s on the Atlantic. Except New York- don’t ask me about them. That’s above my pay grade.

Long story short (and very expensive), I OWE money to the IRS. I will not be planning some little winery adventure to Santa Barbara or taking a weekend getaway to sit on my ass in Palm Springs while some gay man massages sunscreen onto my naked back. No, instead I’m going to have to owe a few thou to Uncle Sam.

Considering I can’t even pay all my bills on my own, because, #LAlife is expensive, how am I going to accomplish this? Apparently I’m not allowed to commit suicide. I mentioned this to my parents and they told me to get a hold of myself, that I was being dramatic or something rude.

The point is I’m about to be 30 and I’m sitting here, clocking in at 7:37pm on May 9th wondering to myself, “How am I going to get this extra $$$?”

I have nothing of value to sell. I shop at Target. I doubt if I put scotch tape over the “Mossimo” label and write “Christian Louboutin” on my four year old booties that Ebay will like that very much.

Savings? What? Been saving myself for a rich asshole, I suppose. But as far as a rainy day fund, nope. Don’t got one of those.

An escort service, you ask? Oh yes, contacted two. One didn’t answer. Guess the headshot photos I uploaded were too ugly or boring. One service did actually contact me, but they keep calling repetitively, and I honestly am now too chicken shit to set up a meeting with the head pimp-daddy, because I can’t bear to get dressed in some skimpy dress just to appeal to a dirty old man who wants to play with my barely B-cup boobs. My father would be utterly distraught and god knows I’ve put that man through enough shit since I was about 11.

So, what is my plan?, you may be wondering. Well first of all, I’ve decided to quit the weekly therapy sessions at $75 a pop for me to drive to West LA, sit in front of the Asian-American judgmental bitch for 50 minutes to watch her sit in that so stoic manner as I whine about my very white girl problems. I will also stop going out so much as Ubers are  not only $5 per ride as I pretend they are. So I am not developing the habit of drinking more at home. But that’s okay. It’s cheaper and I don’t get hit on by strange men in my living room.

I’m still debating about my once every couple week mani-pedis. I really hate having shit nails.

No more daily salad bars at Ralph’s or Whole Foods. That’s really adding up. Frozen vegetables and veggie burgers it is.

Guess I can’t even shop at Target. I’ll just have to raid Miguelita’s closet when I want to go out.

So much for going sky diving for the big 3-0. That shit is expensive. I do not have a generous boyfriend to pay for such an adventure.

Between three grandparents dying in two weeks, having my heart broken by Morocco (you’ll find out about him), and finding out I’m in that nasty thing called debt, my appetite hasn’t been as ferocious as it usually is. I shouldn’t even write about this, I’ll probably jinx myself and just turn into a lard with enormous love handles and five chins.


If I’m going to be broke, I might as well be skinny.

The deal is I’m writing this blog as a way to anonymously publicize (that’s probably grammatically incorrect, whatever, get over it), the idiocies I entrap myself in, the sexcapades I engage in, or whatever other bullshit comes my way. I titled this rant “Dear Saturday Night” since usually these events occur on Saturday evenings. However, when they haven’t occurred on a Saturday, I will be transparent and explain that I’ve “cheated.” If one day this brings me some monetary fortune, then you know, thank you very much and go me. But really, this is for you, Dear Reader. My only hope is that you will chuckle a little, cringe, or you have to, just point and laugh.

And here I am,


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