It is a cold, clear, crisp Friday night. The ground has frost already enclosed around what little grass is left dying in it and what detritus lays atop it. It is beautiful.
And yet, instead of being out and about like the other single twenty-somethings in my proposed socio-economic category, schmoozing and flirting and freezing my tail feathers off, I am at home.
I am in bed at 10:45, sipping tea and feeling judged by a Canadian financial blogger. Yes, I am materialistic, hypocritical, and vain. I like expensive shoes and I drive a gas-guzzling car. I got a dog even though I have school debts. I am this dude's worst nightmare.
And I'm a witch to boot.
I spend too much money on clothing, way too much money on travel and way way too much money on books. I could probably have paid off my debt by now if it were not for the books.
I live irresponsibly and irrationally and with little regard to practicalities. And I do a damned good enough job on my own making myself feel badly, guilty, and worthless.
So…
Suck it, Canadian dude.
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