Broke

A little lesson on how my morning started:

Who Invented the Number Zero? -- powered by ehow

In a way, I woke up to the reality of that.

I heard a text message early before the sun rose. I figured it was maybe Amazon telling me about the next goodie that's on sale or maybe even a pizza discount coupon from Papa John's.

Instead, it was my bank account.

Cool. I know it should only be maybe one or two bucks left.

No.

It sent me the most horrifying news that I've been dreading since I started to get bank texts:

"Your account XXXX is below $0.00. Go online for details."

So, I put on my houseshoes, go into the bathroom, then come back to the laptop to see what happened.

The account was not below "$0.00" as the computer so eloquently informed me. It was at $0.00. Exactly.

This has only happened one other time in my life, and I don't remember that time... like I probably wouldn't remember this one if it weren't for the blog.

Anywho, I scrolled through my transactions, looking for anything pending. Nothing. Everything processed. And then, I found the culprit: Therapy.

The very thing I'm actually using to get well is costing me. So, here I am, having a sort of panic attack, looking through every detail of my account to find out if there is a mistake.

Nope.

Nearly $400 spent on paying back loans, that new pair of pants my ever-growing behind needed, movies, drinks, the "I got bad news and now I need to get over it" day. All in order. I'm just broke.

So, after all that, I just figured that I was bad at handling whatever it is. Mainly the stress that's been in my life recently.

Besides the ZERO balance (that's how it appears in my head, btw), I've had to endure a sudden bug infestation, tons of laundry, and a serious lack of sleep.

My TV's out, my bed is in the trash heap, and my clothes are all mysteriously packed like I'm a derelict just wandering around from place to place.

I can barely find anything.

Oh, and my shower is getting remodeled. I have a bag of mortar sitting right next to me, along with a caulking gun and a roll of thick plastic sheeting.

My shower? Plastic sheeting held up by painter's tape.

Every now and then, the sheeting likes to see how much it can cramp my space by allowing itself to swell with the rising of the heat in the bathroom.

I'm still spraying for bugs.

I'm still playing "guess where your socks are" with my laundry.

I still have no place to put my body wash without it being knocked over on the tub's ledge.

And one more thing: The car I was using to just tote myself around town, is 11 hours away sitting in a driveway, fixed - one day after I needed to leave it to be back at work.

The best thing that I do other than complain is to just deal with it all.

I walk 15 minutes to my job, then sit there for eight hours. I barely take breaks anymore because, well, I'm just too darn tired to get up and go anywhere. I work in what virtually looks like a house, so there's no visiting Susie in Accounting for a quick chat about the latest construction updates... I'd have to physically walk down some stairs and outside the door to another building.

I smile and immerse myself into the conversations of the moment.

My bank account? Well, I went ahead and transferred 5 of the remaining 8 dollars I had in savings, and hoped for the best.

Lesson? There is none. I guess if you count "writing a blog and complaining about your life" as one. Now, there's the moral to your story: When life throws you lemons, you complain about it online.