I took a hard look in the mirror this morning. It wasn't a pretty sight. It was life-changing. It was simple. It was easy. I need more money in my life. Not entirely my fault.
OK, the Cartels are slow-paying. Again. OK, those gigolo gigs have been going South lately, like the rear-end of Seabiscuit heading North at Santa Anita. OK, those Sunday-at-dawn cellophane-wrapped 134 off-ramp flower sales at Forest Lawn have been lately, wilting.
Without more money coming in, I'll have to make a command decision: Do I keep ordering that low-rent Viagra from Canada or do I pay His Majesty, my Landlord, on time?
Forgive me. Last night I sat down in the shower. On that ancient Ikea yellow stool. Mother California's citrus and salad crops are caught in a drought and I just sat in my faded Union-Jack Speedos and let gallons of precious crop-growing H2O pour over me. Gallons.
I looked into the deep and dark recesses of my tortured soul and found the answer to all my financial woes. I found the real answer. I found Nirvana. Why I'm living on the financial edge.
The price of gas is now $6.48 per gallon. That's where all my legal and illegal cash income is going to! To the local gas station.
To the same place where a working man has to pay $10 for a crinkly pack of breakfast Twinkies. To the same place where nobody speaks English as a first language. To the same place where the public restrooms have been welded shut since Ronald Reagan was president of SAG.
I'm praying for a President Biden-led full-throttle wider opening of those OPEC pipelines to ease my pain at the pump.
I'm praying the employment resume I emailed for that all-night kitchen-hand side gig at that Woman's Prison in Tehachapi finds a sympathetic eye and ear.
But, enough about me.
How's your summer going?
