I was standing at the bar yesterday, waiting for change for a hundred dollar bill, and I realized how utterly ridiculous money is as a concept. Trading paper for real things? Who decided this made sense? My mother is fretting at the kitchen table about how she is going to continue to afford to trade shit for other shit. I don't like it. I don't like writing checks. I don't like my money box, however practical it is, because it reminds me of how valueless my time is to some people. Here I am, blue hair and tattoos, trying to make ends meet. I rearrange my resume, trade one euphemism for a better, more vague, counterpart. I debate wearing the dress I bought yesterday afternoon at Uncle Margaret's. I want to crawl into a pile of vintage clothes and never come out, even if all of it smells like armpits. I've been reading Salinger's Franny and Zooey and wanting to go around chain smoking in well-structured dresses and gloves and little hats, though the book doesn't really have any one in it like that. I want something simpler. Not financial aid paperwork that still goes unfiled because I know nothing about my parents' Social Security numbers, not waiting tables for far less money than I hope to have at the end of each week. I don't want to be a slave to a paycheck. But problems keep barreling towards me, like I am in an ice field with no choice but to go down with the ship. I have a reoccurring dream that I have to put my little brother through college, and today, that possibility isn't too divorced from the truth.