Like a Good American…

I count down the hours until 5 PM when my corporate whore job ends, grateful when quitting time comes but also full of contempt for myself when I know there are those making do with much less. I feel reassured when I check my bank balance and confirm my direct deposit came through, then I start subtracting bills from it and realize I have just enough to keep food in the fridge and the lights on but not enough to save for a future I never let myself daydream about. I commute an hour to the family owned house I occupy and pay rent on that I moved to because I can’t afford to pay more than the family discount rate, resplendent with a barely flushing toilet and a bathtub that doesn’t drain. I then attempt to buy groceries and household items we need, abandoning my Wal-mart cart a half hour in because I keep putting items in the cart and tabulate the cost, my anxiety rising with the subtotal. I escape to McDonalds and the liquor store, as a Big Mac and 750 ml of vodka is cheaper than counselling. I tap out a self-pitying essay on Medium as a quasi act of bravery to document how pitiful I am, like a good American.