A week ago I pulled each coat out of my closet stuck my hands into the pockets and scrounged for change. I needed it to buy cheese and tortillas which I needed for quesidillas which I needed for nourishment.

The last time I had worn these coats was in the fall when I had enough money that change coming my way was a cause for dismissal instead of rejoicing – coins were a thing I deposited in my pockets as opposed to my bank. Now my bank account had such little money deposited in it that the $4.63 that I found in the depth of the folds of cloth that hung from my clothes would have to feed  me.

I don’t want to be rich. But I don’t want to be dig-for-change-poor anymore. I also don’t want another job. I know that with a little more work, I could afford to live comfortably. By comfortably I mean with snacks.

Snacks to me are all I ever hope for. They are the ultimate luxury. Luxury is some that that you use not because you need to but because you want to. And the only thing I ever want when I need nothing is food. Salty, addictive, crunchy food.

But I can’t afford snacks.

I can’t afford to have a pantry full of chips and crackers to choose from when I’m bored.

Growing up, my basement was our pantry, and it was stocked like a grocery store’s dumpster. This was because my parents owned a grocery store that sold a small range of food from Kettle Chips to Fruit Leather. All food that had expiration dates despite not really expiring. All these dates were before the date that I ate the food, but I had so many snacks. I lived the most luxurious life I could possibly live, and I wish to do that again, but in order to do that I would need about an extra $100/week for snacks and (why not) beer. This would involve working about one more day a week instead of pretending I’m writing while watching Hulu.

This risk reward problem was really frustrating.

I say “was” because my parents have shut down the health food store, and are sending me boxes and boxes of food hat they never got to sell. I have my weight in snacks against the wall of my apartment.

I’m living in luxury while working 16 hrs/week.

I love me.