I had been broke for weeks, out of the last fifty-dollar installment I occasionally got from my father as his only means of assisting me with school and life in general. My boyfriend was dry until payday, and the half-check was slated to go to rent first. And then cigarettes. Always cigarettes. He was already smoking mine, but since his pack-a-day habit was much more of an addition than my own, I didn’t mind. His artist neighbor existed solely on what he got from his father, and his bank account was also empty.
“Would your ex have money for weed?” the ravens’ wings asked the starving artist.
“Maybe. But I don’t want to talk to her. You’d have to go alone. Plus, no promises on whether she’d actually buy.”
“That’s the problem with campus being closed,” TRW griped. “Even if I had more to sell, there’s no one around to buy it.”
A few moments passed in silence. I had nothing to say—I knew the ravens’ wings’ lack of funds was partially because I was all but squatting at his place for another three weeks, and I had nothing to contribute to the scrounging of theoretical money except a meager jar of change hiding in one of my boxes sitting on top of each other in the back of his truck.
“I might have laundry quarters I never used,” the starving artist offered. “There’s probably like… five bucks in there somewhere.”
“Yeah, but then we’d have to make a decision between nicotine and brownies.”
“True. Or we could go hold up a convenience store.”
“For a single pack of cigarettes?” I asked.
“Sure,” the ravens’ wings joked, his voice thick with frustrated sarcasm. “We could see how much jail time they’d give us.”
“This is why being a creative person sucks,” the starving artist lamented, slouching back in his chair.
“And why’s that?” I asked.
“Because we fuel ourselves with shit.”
“Like your drug cocktails, and nicotine and junk food?”
“Well, that too. But like, hey, TRW, when life is good, is it easier for you to write?”
“Not at all.”
“See? We just fill ourselves with crap. There’s no other way for us to create.”
“And we’re still broke,” I observed.
There were mutters of commiseration. Shortly after that, the ravens’ wings began to search his cluttered corners for change or some sort of money he had misplaced. I figured it was probably more to distract himself from mood shifts and nicotine cravings than anything else, and the fact that he emerged with fifty-two cents and an old MP3 player he insisted on showing the starving artist proved me mostly right.
I found myself wondering what it would be like not to worry about money. Not to have those days between paychecks where even the rice that sits in the pantry for three months, mostly forgotten, gets eaten in a last-ditch effort not to exist on nothing but tea and peanut butter for a week. And I wondered if what the starving artist said was true, that we could only create when being filled with shit and chemicals and broke-to-the-bone weeks and depression and the short end of the stick.
And I wondered, if that was true, which life I would choose, if I could
“Would your ex have money for weed?” the ravens’ wings asked the starving artist.
“Maybe. But I don’t want to talk to her. You’d have to go alone. Plus, no promises on whether she’d actually buy.”
“That’s the problem with campus being closed,” TRW griped. “Even if I had more to sell, there’s no one around to buy it.”
A few moments passed in silence. I had nothing to say—I knew the ravens’ wings’ lack of funds was partially because I was all but squatting at his place for another three weeks, and I had nothing to contribute to the scrounging of theoretical money except a meager jar of change hiding in one of my boxes sitting on top of each other in the back of his truck.
“I might have laundry quarters I never used,” the starving artist offered. “There’s probably like… five bucks in there somewhere.”
“Yeah, but then we’d have to make a decision between nicotine and brownies.”
“True. Or we could go hold up a convenience store.”
“For a single pack of cigarettes?” I asked.
“Sure,” the ravens’ wings joked, his voice thick with frustrated sarcasm. “We could see how much jail time they’d give us.”
“This is why being a creative person sucks,” the starving artist lamented, slouching back in his chair.
“And why’s that?” I asked.
“Because we fuel ourselves with shit.”
“Like your drug cocktails, and nicotine and junk food?”
“Well, that too. But like, hey, TRW, when life is good, is it easier for you to write?”
“Not at all.”
“See? We just fill ourselves with crap. There’s no other way for us to create.”
“And we’re still broke,” I observed.
There were mutters of commiseration. Shortly after that, the ravens’ wings began to search his cluttered corners for change or some sort of money he had misplaced. I figured it was probably more to distract himself from mood shifts and nicotine cravings than anything else, and the fact that he emerged with fifty-two cents and an old MP3 player he insisted on showing the starving artist proved me mostly right.
I found myself wondering what it would be like not to worry about money. Not to have those days between paychecks where even the rice that sits in the pantry for three months, mostly forgotten, gets eaten in a last-ditch effort not to exist on nothing but tea and peanut butter for a week. And I wondered if what the starving artist said was true, that we could only create when being filled with shit and chemicals and broke-to-the-bone weeks and depression and the short end of the stick.
And I wondered, if that was true, which life I would choose, if I could
