Today is payday. And payday, rich with implied wealth and abundant with assumed meanings, represents only one lingering thought in my mind.
Greasy fingers.
Oh, yes. Glorious, greasy, grimy fingers. Fingers abused by melted high-fat mozzarella. Stained by crimson sauce, lubricated by crumbling buttery crust.
Oh, yes. Payday.
And that was just lunch.
This is the consequence of the abolition of the concept of non-discretionary income. This is government bloat personified in my own miscreant being. This is malfeasance. And it tastes so good.
This is a ritual that comes about not because of a well formed and followed philosophy of hedonism, but a more recent and much more powerful compulsion of desperation. The need to claw some form of entertainment out of the waste of temporary and non-life-threatening poverty.
Yeah. Payday pizza.
Payday pizza is my incentive to live. Ok, maybe not to live. But certainly a means to endure two and half weeks of el cheapo pasta products and no beer.
Because beer, though my bachelor self is loathe to admit, is a luxury item. A costly luxury item. For me.
I'm forced to ask myself how it is that wine-os on the street, living in the relative muck of the inner city without a job or a roof can somehow maintain the extravagant lifestyle of the hooch hound.
There must be a Department of Liquid Assistance. Must be. There's a Department for everything under the sun.
Just none for me. I look in vain for some alcoholic charity to perpetuate my supply. But the only help available is the kind to get you off the happy rotten grain.
Woe is me.
I'm a broke joke.
Today I log into my negleted website to find that all of my entries have been spammed in the comments by a drug resaler.
How exciting.
Clearly, I have enough of a non-existing fan base to rate a lazy drug pusher.
I just don't know what to say.