Brokety, brokety, broke.

Again. Seriously, I have no idea how I do it. And no, I'm not one of those fools that says that whilst fondly gazing at the new 80 euro boots she just bought herself. I swear to you, I do not really buy things unless absolutely fucking necessary. I had to force myself two weeks ago to buy some jeans and flats because my other jeans and flats had two holes apeice in them, and had done for months. I haven't had a haircut in about seven years and God knows, I barely spend money on things like cosmetics (I only really wear foundation and mascara as, in the words of many who have tried to get me "into" other eye make-up, I look "um...yeah..really fucking weird" wearing much else).

All of this then begs the question WHERE THE HOLY HELL IS ALL MY MONEY GOING? I have racked my brains and racked my brains and still have no idea. Which leads me to the uncomfortable conclusion that my lack of funds is still down to the worst of all financial pitfalls, the Drunk Withdrawal. You know the one, the "ish only two a.m, and I wansh more vodka ansh stuffs, so fucking wash if there'sh no Postshbank cashpoint in the Naehe, I'll jussst fucking use thisssh one, fuck the six euro chargsh". SIX EUROS? Are you fucking insane? That's a delicious Vietnamese feast at Hamy PLUS icecream after, you drunken nutbag.

Oh well, I figure being broke keeps me qualifying as living on the edge, despite my steady job (as a teacher, ffs) and steady beau (do I miss the days of actually having to entertain the thought of going home with the maniacs only I seem to attract in clubs? HA!). And, as we all know, living on the edge keeps one hip and attractive and away from trouser suits, which is bound to be a good thing.