From The Province(s) Of The Empire: Men With No Money
by Miss Iside
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My recent and partially love-driven move to the Twin Cities (from Los Angeles, no less) made me realize that my problem with men is actually men, and not the weather as I always thought. More specifically, my problem with men is men’s relation to material possessions: lack of their own and appreciation of mine, or to put it more simply, men with no money.Men With No Money have been a constant issue throughout my adulthood. For me, they have always been particularly dangerous because they’re incredibly easy to find, anywhere in the world. I can, in fact, flaunt a pretty international array of specimen. My Men With No Money came from France, Italy, Singapore, the U.S., and had numerous common features: all young, all pretty, most exotic and irreversibly broke.
As it often happens, my addiction started pretty low key. The first one only cost me my living expenses at his place plus a plane ticket to send him back home after he moved into mine. The second used my car (even when I needed it), and never paid his share of the insurance. Or gas, for that matter.
The last one, however, was a different story.
When I met him I was taken by his youthfulness, his attractive features and – of course - lack of stable finances. He had no education, no real interests, and no aim in life. He did not read and could not really write. He often suggested that it would have been, like, “totally awesome” (in an alternative lifestyle sense) if I could become his provider. He used the expression “sugar-mama”, if I remember correctly. After all, he constantly bragged, he was not expensive at all. He even ate from the trash sometimes.Despite his apparent rejection of materiality, though, he didn’t mind my expensive wine, and since he knew about my penchant for quality food, he allowed me buy the good stuff, which he often shared with me. But he always repaid me: cheese and flowers from the dumpster, garbage-lentil candlelight dinners, random found objects that always smelled really bad. I could tell he was really smitten when he put all of his effort into trying to write me semi-articulate emails stating that he liked me “allot” and that that his love for me was “absolutly sinseer”.
Even though I was really taken, when my Man With No Money and I started going steady, I often thought about his writing skills. And the dumpster stuff. And the “sugar-mama” allusions. I often sought advice from friends and family in order to get a more detached perspective on our relationship.
When I asked how to define someone with the spelling skills of a soft clam, everyone seemed to agree that you call those people “illiterate”. However, when I asked for a linguistic description of someone who has no intention of ever finding an occupation in life, the answers were not so unanimous. Some called that a “parasite”. Others leaned more towards “scum”. One memorable definition that stood out: “If he’s white, then he’s White Trash.” When I asked how to define someone who eats from the trash by willful choice, everyone was in agreement once again: “You call that fucking gross. Are you kidding me?”
Those were not exactly the words of encouragement and support I was looking for. But, alas, since no one with a problem considers the downside of their addiction, I continued to revel in the, like, “total awesomeness” of my Man With No Money’s alternative lifestyle. True, we didn’t really go out. I mean, I couldn’t always afford to pay for us both. Good thing his ideal pastime was staying at home doing backrubs and watching the movies I rented. It wasn’t too bad. At least not for him.
When we moved in together I mentioned that some help with the rent would be appreciated. My Man With No Money was in shock at first, but grudgingly accepted the idea. I was overrun with guilt, but kept telling myself that the decision was for the best. He might have been able to find an occupation, a direction in life. I envisioned him as the leader of the world union of trash-eaters, I dreamt about him organizing hordes of young and passionate non-workers for the common cause of slacking.
After a month of seeing him cheating on me with his PlayStation, or not seeing him as he went out to random bars (tips on me), I even hoped – badly – that he would at least take up spelling classes, just like some old ladies take ceramics. He must have felt cornered by my needy demands, because he left one day when I was at work, taking all his stuff. Thankfully, he didn’t take mine. My guess is because it’s mostly heavy and it would have been too much of an effort. He moved into some girl’s basement, leaving me a note on the table.
“I see major obsticals in our relationship. After thoughtfull considaretion I think we should seperate. My desicion is final.”
I still admire his great timing. He left right before the bills were due.
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