I have already sunk (and most likely lost for good) a few thousand dollars for which I actually worked.
I’ve already been told that unless I am wiling to pay double-digit interest rates and a trio of points on twelve-month loans, it can’t be done.
And never mind the money, I’ve lost so much ground in my on-going existential battle against this social cage I’ve been trapped in for almost twenty-nine years. If I get pushed back any further, I’ll be at risk of losing the sanity and happiness I’ve staked out for myself. That’s right, I feel myself slipping back into the old depression. What is the use of all this sobriety and sacrifice and goddamn crochet? I want drugs. I’m already using caffeine again, without medicinal wine I couldn’t have made it this far in the process, nicotine is rearing its ugly head and flashing its yellow teeth provocatively at me, and the only question on my mind is, why not indulge?
Forget this dream. That’s right, give up! You’ve been a stranger in a strange land these past months, and the locals haven’t made you feel very welcome. Go back to suckle at the bosom of the good old life, where the wine is strong and the music is better.
Not yet. I’m gonna give it one last push, even if this project turns out to be as dead set against me winning as Djamilah’s right arm was against mine last Sunday. I had her inches from the table, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not muster the strength to get it down. After five white-knuckled minutes, I finally let go, just as I’ll let this building go if I have to.
At worst, I’ll be a little sore for a few days, right?
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