Give me my camouflage jacket and shopping cart, and break out the bongos. It's time to hit the street, and pull up a cardboard box next to the English and History majors I have always made fun of, sitting on the curb. Since my naive dreams of becoming a professional poker player did nothing but contribute to my financial ruin, I have decided that the only thing left for me to do is become a street performer, since every possible career lead has since gone down the shitter. This persuit would probably not be that lucrative, since the only performing I could do would either be A) a display of public intoxication, or B) something I would have to do if I went to jail for A). Option B is also turning out to be the unfortunately likely solution to paying rent, if you catch my drift, and thinking about it makes me want to write "Option C" on a shotgun shell.

So why has the idea of becoming a tranny hooker come to be the seemingly inevitible option, you ask? A few days ago I sat down and looked my finances in the eye, for the first time in months. They're bad. Let's just say that they're so bad, the next morning I picked my breakfast from a tree outside my apartment. When I felt like dessert, I went and picked some more. As I sat on my bed munching my tangerines and rolling change, I explained to Jon how ridiculous this was since my dad is a multimillionaire. But thus is life, so we went to the bar, got blasted off quarter beers, and I rode a mechanical bull to make myself feel better.

This job search thing is getting really, really old. The last time I counted the job applications in my email outbox, there were over 150. I have only had two regular interviews in the past 3 months where I got passed up for candidates with more experience, and a phone interview between myself and three cock-monkeys who I couldn't understand because of bad reception. I might as well just roll up my degree and smoke it.

Being poor is also really boring and a lot less fun than I thought. It does not go over well with the ladies. I wake up at noon and watch emeralds revolve to Christmas music on the Home Shopping Network, while I sit around smoking and drinking diet coke like a trophy wife. If only we had a pool boy. When I get tired from getting so much sleep, I'll go lay on my bed and play with my balls until watching the fan on my ceiling puts me to sleep. Anyways, atleast jeans with holes are now back in style, so I'm a pretty trendy looking broke dude. To rub the whole being poor thing in, the usual cash settlement Christmas present from daddy has been substituted with a gay ass Disney cruise this year. I can't believe I got invited back after getting drunk and puking on the marble elevator last time. Anyways, it's almost 3:00 pm; It's time to top off being poor by walking to the store to buy 40's and getting wasted before Jon gets home from work.