This morning, in a fit of vanity caused by what I can only assume is severe sleep deprivation, I borrowed my boyfriend’s credit card and upgraded my plan. I had to borrow his card because I am a cash only business. Years of critical theory have taught me to be very wary of the government and big banks (Thanks, Foucault), so I store all my money in my cat’s litter (no, not the dirty litter, the clean litter. Also now that you know where I hide my money, can you please keep it to yourself? If you need some, just ask).
I made this stupid, stupid mistake for the same reason I compulsively buy, then quit, gym memberships: spending money on something tricks me into believing I’ll take it more seriously. All my former personal trainers will tell you this is not necessarily true.
Should I have saved the money? Probably. I’m an unemployed 25-year-old with a master’s in feminism, for god’s sake. I could have used it to buy more important things.
Like food. Or a gym membership.