Soy Hot Dogs and Cyphillis

I've been trying to finish Reverb10, but knowing that they were the last ones I'd answer I got seriously caught up in trying to make it "perfect" and had to keep it in the "edit" section for a little while longer. My East Coast trip is winding to a close as I sit here at my kitchen table with my foot wrapped in an ice pack and resting atop the table, while my mother carves a woodblock (what?) and talks to herself, and my brother is on his third soy hot dog. I never said we weren't a special bunch.

So...I've been religiously opening the tab on my checking account balance and doing math until I've figured out that I don't have enough money, again and again. I spent roughly $10,000,000* in New York the past few days, so now the need to get a job when I return to LA tonight is ridiculous. I might actually just put on some gold lamé booty shorts and stand on a corner until someone gives me something. Preferably not Syphilis. It'd suck if my boyfriend came back on Friday and I had to remind him that he just signed a lease with me and then show him my syph results. So maybe I'll just reopen my Craigslist tab.

*Shut up. I know. I exaggerate.

My Google history now reads Citibank, Gold Lame, and Syphillis. I have no idea what that means, but I know that the government still has no reason to hack my computer.

I have to share this. Sorry. This is in reference to a religious figure from my deceased grandmother sitting atop our entertainment center directly across from the kitchen table, in the living room:

My brother: Why is the Madonna facing away from us?
Mom: Because we don't worship her.
Brother: So we're kissing her ass?

My flight is in two hours. I think it's time for an online check-in and a ride to the airport.

A