Daily Diatribe 7/17/98:"Nuts to you, Stingy!"
Here's my beef: I don't have enough money, and I don't have nearly enough stuff. Why don't more people spontaneously buy me things? Why don't large, thick envelopes of cash turn up in my mailbox EVER? I'm tired of having to ask. It's humiliating, and it doesn't seem to work. I buy stuff for other people all the time. And I give things away almost on a daily basis. Cripes, the next time that chick from AmVets calls and asks if I have anything to donate, I'm going to say, "You know, honey, I think it's your turn. Maybe you need to ask yourself how much this relationship is really worth to you."
I'll be the first to admit that there's free stuff to be had. I'm practically intravenously connected to the binaries newsgroups, and my font page certainly speaks volumes. But that's a lot of work, buddy. And I happen to be that dangerous and rare combination of busy and lazy. Naturally, I don't find that very appealing. Plus, it's not as if you can download a pair of Gucci pants or a bottle of really expensive shampoo. The net'll only get me so far. But I digress.
I can't tell you how dashed to pieces I was as a young teenager with her first checking account, when I discovered that get rich quick schemes don't work. What sucks more than that revelation? I sent away for everything. "Stuff Envelopes at Home for Big Bucks," "Read Books for Cash," "Profit at the Expense of the Aged and Infirm" -- bupkus. That's what I got out of the bargain. Not only did the kits contain no useful information whatsoever, but I was far too unmotivated to have done anything they instructed anyway.
I want money, and I'm tired of having to work for it. Oh, and I'm also not willing to go to jail. So what's a gal to do? Send ideas and/or cash to firstname.lastname@example.org. And be quick about it. Mama needs a new pair of Manolo Blahniks.
Back to The Soapbox.
1998 Mary Forrest.