written 11/27/04
Worrying about rent money. It's that time of the month. I keep having a good time, relaxed, having fun. Then the thought of money comes and puts its dirty dirty hand over my eyes. I recognize the smell of that hand.
A waitress at the Golden Nugget on Clark stands at the register cutting up her credit cards while a Chicago cop watches.
"What are you doing," getting up from his seat at the turquoise stool at the counter, "Aren't those your charge cards?"
Charge cards. I need me some charge cards.
"Gotta stop spending money somehow," she says.
He whispers something to her, gives her a couple cigarettes out of his pack-- and a twenty dollar bill?
I'm not the only one worrying about money. I don't have a police officer feeding me cigarettes and money, though.
Wouldn't be bad. To protect and to serve.
I always say to myself; “C’mon dude, don’t waste all your wad on Wendy’s and midnight shopping sprees at Walgreen’s for scented candles, cereal, vivarin, and whatever I you afford on the As Seen on TV aisle.” Some of that borrowed cash needs to go towards rent this time around. Thank goodness for my rich aunt.
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