Broke-Ass is not her usual toilet-mouthed, rage-against-the-machine self today. Today, actually, she is really rather blue. It is not a good kind of raining today.

There is the good kind of raining in which you feel warm and swaddled inside and feel mouse-like at the thought of snuggling up in a quilt when you get home and reading Freedom. There is the other kind of good rain, which is green and adolescent and purifying and procreative, like in “Five Years” by David Bowie. There is melancholy, Bronte-esque moor rain, and that can be pretty good, too, especially if you have a good pen and writing paper–maybe a piano in an empty room.

Today’s rain is just cold and sad and Broke-Ass is reminded of all the failures in the world. The failures of communication, of acting the way you would have wanted to, of really helping someone, of overcoming hurts that are apparently indelibly branded into you, of courage when it counted most, of holding back. Sometimes, it just seems all so fucking sad. And there just doesn’t seem to be much to do about it.

Today will be different. But today is just sad.


About brokeassgrouch

I'm goddamned broke and grouchy. I live in the middle of the damned ghetto and raise chickens for eggs; grow all my own vegetables and fruit; bake the bread and make the cleaning products. Why? Because I fucking have to, that's why! That's what you do when you're fucking poor! You have to make the shit yourself, dumb-ass! Broke-Ass Grouch is sick of all you Bennington and RISD trustafarians yapping about your "urban farming co-ops" and your "carbon conscious lifestyle" and your "green choices" in the Times Styles section and every alternapress periodical that you can pick up for free in every eye-wateringly expensive, edgy bakery or green-market. Maybe when you have a trust fund, you can make "choices" or have a "lifestyle" or "decide" how to "spend" your "money." Excuse me, but Mama is just trying to feed her kids over here, you little shits. And stop spraying your art-school graffiti on the fence of the vacant lot across the street from my house. I know who you are, and I'm telling my friend Keith (who lives in the projects) that it was you who painted that cartoon of the African mask. So what can I tell you? I don't fucking know. I know a lot about being broke, sure as Bob's your fucking uncle. I know about how useless an Ivy League degree is when you're flat-ass broke. I know how to unclog a drain with baking soda and vinegar, and I know how to make my own CHEESE, for fuck's sake. You tell me.
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2 Responses to Sad

  1. Pat Hough says:

    love and hugs to you sweet girl. you’re not alone.



  2. ezekieldas says:

    I’ll take a quiet life a handshake of carbon monoxide with no alarms and no surprises please.

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