Seriously... I don't have a problem talking about money as much as I don't have a problem talking about my age -- both taboo subjects for a lot of people, the first one particularly in this country, I suppose. As for age, I've gotten used to my indiscreet boys broadcasting out loud how old I am to classmates and friends far and wide (my oldest doesn't do much of that anymore, obviously).
[ridiculously long run-on sentence]: I'm 42 and I should be happy that with my two "jobs" I make nearly 50K a year, so I know I'm doing OK compared with billions of people worldwide and shouldn't complain, but the possibility I'll make way less than that next year, K not having a summer salary, my summer class probably being canceled, and the fact that there's this huge expensive-tickets trip coming up next summer and all of the things I wish we could do added to those we actually need, just make me overwhelmed, stressed, and make me hate money (especially its lack) more than anything.
OK, rant over. I don't want to write more about that. such a first-world problem. such a whiny person. Very very bad! :-( It's just that sometimes (ok, all of the time) I get sick and tired of living a very frugal life which is the only life I've known and probably the only life I'll have so I should just shut up, right?
ok, bye then. (says the ashamed blogger, as she shamelessly hits publish)
Book #2: Marjorie Munsterberg, Writing About Art
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