It talks! It can't buy happiness! It's the root of all evil!

I don't know anything about money.

(Even my avatar is broke)

Money and I...we're strangers. No, we're worse than strangers actually. We're high school students, and I'm slightly overweight and obsessed with being in the popular crowd that Money runs, and I'm completely desperate to get Money to like me and let me hang out for a while. I do Money's homework. I throw myself at Money's friends. I bring Money's favorite snacks in my lunch box to prove to Money that we have such similar tastes and deep down inside we're the same, but Money just wants nothing to do with me. Money shuns me, and this makes me even more desperate for its sweet, sweet approval. So I work harder.

No, that's a lie. I don't work that hard. I mean, sometimes I do. We all have those days when people stop eating cake all afternoon and the champagne dries up (you think I'm exaggerating, but only once have I had a job where this didn't regularly occur) and there's a crisis at work and you have to quit watching funny Youtube videos of puppies that can't roll from their backs to their stomachs and jump into action, but in general, no, I don't work that hard. There's a ...gulp...Dilbert cartoon my mom cut out because it reminded her of me, where a guy's getting career counseling and the counselor asks what he wants to be. He says "a millionaire" and the counselor asks if he's prepared to work hard to achieve that goal. His response? "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?"

However, while I don't work That Hard, I do work Just Hard Enough. And you know what the biggest scam is about working? People don't ever tell you you're going to have to do it. I mean, if they let that secret out in college, I bet coeds would really try and treasure those days where you (I mean they...) drink two pitchers of Bacardi Vanilla and Diet Coke for $5 and then lie in bed throwing up until 7pm the next night after being "too sick" to go to class and then you get yourself together enough to go close your $10 bar tab and pick up dinner and sit in your bed and eat it while watching tv with your roommates. And yes, technically sometimes I still do that now, but the drinks are about 1/8th the size and five times the price and my parents don't pay my bar tab and if I forget to close it I have to call the goddamn bar eight times before someone picks up and then another three times before anyone locates my card and then wait until they reopen on Tuesday at 9PM so I can try and cut the line in my work clothes and promise the bouncer I'm just picking up my credit card and then have a heart attack that I spent $120 at ONE place in ONE night that I don't even remember being at and then lie to my office that I have that 24hr pinkeye that's going around and no I'm not hungover I just ate bad sushi at that place you know where I can't remember the name but won't ever go back ha ha and then deny that I threw up to anyone else because I'm 26 and "party til you puke" is just an Andrew WK song and not a way of life. I try and limit these sick days to once a month, and just drag myself into work the other 29 +/- days and act like a functioning adult.

(It's possible we both wind up "puking" because we have similarly awful drunken eating habits)

This is why I love having my own office. My office is furnished with things from my apartment, like a living room, and is bigger than my bedroom. I told someone this today and they "awwwww-ed" at me. Why? If I had to choose, I know that I spend way more time awake and screwing around at work than I do in my room. I'd definitely want my office to be bigger, have better climate control, a great view, and a secretary/bouncer outside of my door to keep out the riffraff there than at home. (At home, I encourage the riffraff to enter). And while none of us like to face it, our offices are our homes and our homes are just our homes-away-from-home. But I still hate going to work/home /land of cake and champagne where I chat online and read textsfromlastnight because no matter what you do or don't do, work sucks.

Working. Sucks.

Yup, I said it. I have a BA, two MA's, and no MRS. Not that I'm dying to be barefoot and pregnant anywhere anytime soon (Christian Loubitin-ed and pregnant? Where do I sign...), but I wouldn't mind just frying up the bacon and letting someone else bring it home. This probably makes me a bad modern woman, but come ON. I just wrote what we're all thinking.

While I was unemployed, single, and on the verge of homelessness this past spring, my family decided it'd be a great time for a giant formal affair with relatives from all ends of the earth gathering to drink, dance, and condescendingly ask about one another's personal lives under the guise of caring. A distant cousin was talking to my father and me about my (lack of) job prospects, and he told her that at this point I either need to get a job or get a husband, because he can't afford to keep me around much longer. She clucked her tongue and told him that was a terrible thing to say and that women in my generation are self-sufficient and she's sure I'd like a job, what an awful joke. He just smiled and said "yeah, I'm not joking, she'd probably prefer the husband" and they both looked at me. I shrugged, "yup, I think that's the better option..."

This post isn't about me wanting to get married or have kids. It's about me needing money. And while I'm no Sherlock Holmes, from the clues I've been gathering, it just appears that "husbands" seem to know where all this money's at.