So this is it… sitting on my bed in my tiny rented room in a house that I share with two lesbian lovers, a Scottish traveller and a cat named Optimus, in my underwear, crying on the phone to a financial planner as she talks to me about the option of declaring bankruptcy at 27 to take care of the $7,000 debt that I have no way of paying.
I thought I’d already been there as a troubled teenager with a compulsive eating problem, when I was sprung by my mother trying to smuggle an empty condensed milk can, jar of anchovies and the packaging from a block of parmesan cheese into the bin. I was wrong. This is worse.
I can’t help feeling that by the age of 27 I should have more control of my life. And my finances. It’s embarrassing to admit that my priorities are and always have been as follows: fun, food, sex, work, drinking, buying stuff, music, Facebook, and looking at pictures of dogs on the internet – with financial responsibilities failing to even rate a mention. And while it’s true that $7,000 is not a large amount of money, it only goes to show the desperate state of turmoil my life is in when such a small debt threatens to shatter my financial security and self-image, swiftly turning me from chic and glossy twenty-something single to world-wearied and apathetic ex-de-facto with a cross to bear. Or seedy failed entrepreneurial small business owner – at least then I’d have a sweet moustache.
So this is where I stand. After spending 2 hours lying on my bed with a damp face washer draped over my head, intermittently checking my phone for texts and coming up with hair-brained schemes that would get me out of my current penniless predicament – selling bodily fluids over the internet, finding a sugar-daddy, inventing a new type of sandwich, and pawning all of my worldly possessions – I came to a realisation. The only way from here is up. Surely.