20nothing.com

Paris Hilton made money topical before she became the mayor of Whoreville. Suddenly, being a skinny, blonde girl with an endless American Express became more than just the punch line of a fantasy. She became a reality. It is a shame that she had to make it real for everyone to realize that they don’t actually want it.

I am sure the economy is hurting Hilton more than any of her [supposed] venereal diseases. She has gone from sleeping with Greek shipping heirs to doing cast members of “The Hills”. If anyone says that they didn’t forecast the economic crash, assume correctly that they weren’t reading US Weekly magazine.

 

I probably would have noticed the economic crisis more if I had money to begin with. But as far as I am concerned, the 08/09 Financial Year was just another anum that confirms my affiliation with never returning Blockbuster DVDs and economy boxes of condoms. Which is ironic, really. Because Hilton earned almost ten million dollars this year, yet she seems to spend her money on similar things to me.

 

Logic I am unfamiliar with may be able to explain it, but the reality is that on the second day of this financial year, I had to source investors so I could afford to buy a can of Coke Zero.

“What do you spend your money on?” Boy friend asked.

See aforementioned Blockbuster and condoms.

On the same day, my faux husband had his own American Express declined when he attempted to buy the third Twenty Nothing essential. A bottle of wine.

“I feel like Lindsay Lohan,” he told me, causing me to wonder whether he had simultaneously maxed himself out with fake tan while begging for booze money.

I drank my scotch without any mixer and started to consider if my era is the post American Express generation. Maybe it’s the American Expression Degeneration.

 

Whenever I have had to make large purchases with twenty-cent pieces, I have concocted elaborate stories to explain my apparent failure in life.

“My purse was stolen,” I have said by way of justification of my pile of life savings resting on the counter. The truth is that I don’t even own a purse. 

“I have change I need to get rid of,” I have laughed, trying to suggest that there are assets behind the bag of silver.

For reasons that another worlds logic may be able to explain, I have believed that the cashier serving me either believed my stories or cared enough about the reality to challenge me on my decision to buy things using anything other than paper or plastic. But practice, as always, makes perfect and after, maybe, hundreds of similar experiences I realized that the reality is I just never wanted to be the girl buying Marlboro Lights using found change.

But I am that girl. 

OnceuponaMcDonaldswasn’tconsideredfinedining, I looked for jobs according to their annual net income. And then I noticed that there weren’t any jobs listed at all and so I had to start look for A Job in general. Onceuponatwominutenoodle, I decided to study degrees that I am passionate about, rather than what was assumed would garner me an impressive income. The only justification I had was that I would rather sit in a cardboard box on the side of a street holding a sign that reads Will Write For Food (aside: I’m hungry) than sit in a cubical for money. People frequently inquire what employment I will get from a philosophy degree, forgetting that sometimes one just labours through something to simply learn.

“I am going to be the most educated bar tender in the world,” I inform them, somewhat proudly, conceding that my [excessive] education isn’t actually navigated towards anything economically beneficial but merely mentally rewarding.

I can mix a mean drink and my education makes me perfectly experienced to join in on drunk conversations.

 

Whoever said that The Best Things In Life are free was obviously having unprotected sex. But was still right to a certain point. If one has the enjoyment of never-to-be-returned Will Ferrell DVD’s and a bucket of condom’s at their disposal, then the absence of money prompts creativity rather than economics to garner entertainment.

“I wish I could actually make money from sex,” my girl friend complained to me on a particular creative night of eating macaroni and cheese directly out of the saucepan.

I agreed that in a fantasy world I have no moral objection to prostitution, as I figure, I have had sex for lesser reasons than financial gain.

“What would your price be?” She asked me as we started to follow the Hilton business plan.

“You know what?” I conceded. “No body could afford me.”

I poured us another drink out of a three-day-old cask of wine and conceded that I will have to make money with the only other still I have.