With three hundred dollars worth of airline tickets on my shiny new credit card, the knot in my stomach tightens up in a disapproving sort of way. If this isn't the panacea for my troubles, I'm in even deeper shit. My dad's voice keeps echoing in my head, warning me of the dangers of that glossy bit of blue plastic.
"CASH IS KING!"
Fuck you, Dave Ramsey.
It's not like I haven't thought through the risks, weighed my options. The nursing student from North Carolina, the one who say's ya'll, all but promised she could take the room. Joey says she can't wait to see me.
Bring green chile, she says.
The shock is wearing off now, rolling off my shoulders like rain.
Rain. That's why I'm doing this. Rain. And solitude. And anger. And bitterness.
My motivations were always clear, no matter how destitute they are.
Do it, Andrea says. Book it. If worse comes to worse, I'll drive you back the next day. Besides, we should have the house by then.
Everything is resting on a knife edge, but isn't always? We're always seeking the tiny island of balance. The restorative powers of the escape. The transformative power of running away.
The sheer bliss when you give the world the finger.
The reason Andrea might not have a house is that she has four roommates, and the City of Tempe municipal code states that five or more women living together constitutes a brothel. They rufie girls at frat houses, she complains to me over her free night and weekend minutes, but we can't live together because we're running a whorehouse.
Sublets, roommates, credit cards, rufies.
That knife is getting sharper. And my itch is getting stronger.
So fuck you, Tempe, fuck you Dave Ramsey. Me and my credit card are going.
If I forget the chile, Joey will kill me.