Debt City, Bitch

Debt, debt city, bitch. Debt city, bitch. Debt, debt city, bitch. Ten, ten, ten, twenties on yo—God, I’m going to hell.


Roommate and I are cruisin’ in her ride, boasting to none other than ourselves about how funny we are and how MTV should really pick up on our talent.

“I mean, if they can have those stupid bitches (gesturing towards what my imagination says is the direction of Jersey Shore) on TV…”
“—What about these stupid bitches?” Her open smile and inquisitive eyebrows are held in suspense as she wags her finger between us. “Eh? Eh?” Too true, boo.

My roommate has a knack for freestyling remixes of songs à la Weird Al Yankovic.

“Girl, you should write jingles for a living. I’d lose all respect for you, but at least we’d be bank-rollin’ it in one of these bougie new condos.” A few stunningly chic apartment complexes have mushroomed in and around our neighborhood of late, and though they look completely out of place here… “Look! That one has a balcony where we can put the succulents we currently can’t afford to adorn our sill-less windows with!”
“What if I become like Weird Al?”
“Hold on, bitch. That’s a mistake.”

“Cata La Rara,” she muses.

I never thought it would come to this. I remember being on the phone with my mother some months ago.

Mom: “Have you lost weight out there?”
Me: “What are you talking about?”
Mom: “Well, because you can’t afford to feed yourself.”
Me: *snorts* “Mom, let me tell you one thing: I will go broke before I go hungry. That’s just how I roll.”
Mom: *laughs* “Okay, good to know.”

Alas, it has come to this. Of course, I’ve only skipped one meal so far, in this desperate stretch of poverty leading up to Pay Day, but already I could swear to Holy Krishna that my stomach looks smaller.

“I love bathing in student loans.”
“And I in credit card payments with mad interest, my love.”

Roommate Cata (Yes, finally! Her name revealed!) laughs, and we laugh, and then, when I stop laughing, she’s still laughing. Then she kind of slips into this slowly bubbling hysteria—what is that, is she crying?—and then I’m so uncomfortable, watching her from the passenger’s seat, that I just open the door, tuck and roll, and decide to walk home from there.



Definitely taken from
Definitely taken from

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