Let us Speak of Sand Dunes and Water
You could try until you're literally Democratic blue in the face and pour fact upon fact and truth upon truth for bottomlessly ignorant wingnuts who still insist that Obama's redder than Karl Marx's asshole. Or, if you're like the smoking hot but misguided young man above, you could actually pour water into a sand dune to... make the point literally for... some reason.
And this sad but true metaphor of wasted resources also applies to paying bills. We pour endless amounts of money into the dune for one service or product or another and wind up in the same exact position we were in the previous month. It's an ingenious system of endless indentured servitude to corporations who don't give a fuck if we live or die but care very much if they get their money on time and pretend as if nothing horrible is going on out here. But that's the system into which we were all born and no one person can change a deeply entrenched and corrupt economy that victimizes and vilifies the poor and honest while endlessly rewarding the rich and unscrupulous. Occupy Wall Street tried and failed.
Somehow, February is slipping away from us and part of this is because it's a short month without even the relief of an extra 24 hours for Leap Year. Bills come due two or three days sooner and I've just suffered the incredibly embarrassing experience of trying to buy $7 worth of stuff with less than $3 in my bank (it didn't help that my debit card was declined while the store was loaded with auditing contractors from Bangor, ME doing the annual inventory and customers behind me).
This necessitated a hasty deposit minutes later of virtually all the money we have in the world which will evaporate long before the end of the month after the gas, car insurance and light bills come due. And I haven't even mentioned rent, which, thus far, we have about as much chance of paying as Rush Limbaugh winning a platinum medal in women's figure skating.
I'm still sending out resumes, so please don't assume I've given up on my job search, which I haven't done any more than I've given up on trying to sell my novels The Toy Cop or American Zen. At my age, that isn't remotely an option with Social Security still 11 years off (or 16, if the GOP has its Draconian way). We're still behind the 8-ball after Mrs. JP's unplanned vacation in Florida over the holidays that cost us over $400 we plainly didn't have.
D r i f t g l a s s has a habit of saying, "Pay the effin' writer!" and, while I heartily agree with the sentiment, I tend to be a little more diplomatic when I ask my dwindling readership for help. Trying to make a better life for your loved one than the one they had when you found them shouldn't be a pipe dream in what is still the richest nation on earth. I'm sure you few remaining Pottersvlle remainders know where the Paypal button is. We desperately need assistance even moreso than usual and you have my sincerest apologies for making this a near monthly thing.