At base level, what I want is a car and a guitar. By coincidence the two things rhyme, but after all, I fancy myself a bit of a musician. I'd want the road to the high tech recording studio to be long and wearisome, for the sake of experience. I would buy my girlfriend a keyboard, and rent a practice space. To back up a little, let's assume a small payout. I'd buy a car and commute to the far away town in which my girlfriend lives. Just like when gas was a dollar a gallon, and cigarettes followed gas prices. They got confused somewhere along the way, but for many years, this was the rule. We did very well for the longest time at a long distance from one another. The split was less bitter than it was sweet. Our breakup was over the telephone, and believe me, we cannot fight. If we tried to fight I expect us to be very bad and unconvincing.
And so, we're back on the telephone, taking another stab at a long distance relationship. The prices have changed, but the people have more or less stayed the same. I don't have to define "poor" in any other meaning to the reader, given the reading level here. I have a poor mentality toward women I can see with my eyes. Most of them are tall, shapely, and blond. It's just a trend. Or, is it because my girlfriend shares these features? She not only refuses to forgive me for mingling with cashiers and passerby, she is flattered that I attribute it to like physical features. There's an example at the closest McDonald's restaurant. A cashier complimented my t-shirt one afternoon. I'd noticed her around the store for more than her sassy attire. McDonald's can't be that bad of a place to meet people. It's friendly. They've got a well-balanced clown on their side. And, on the subject of money, it's the cheapest place to eat on earth. Two dollars and eleven cents will get you two double cheeseburgers or chicken sandwiches, which are small, but sufficient. I'd go in there and get myself some more often, but I don't always have my lines rehearsed. Ahem.
Being poor and eating poor go hand in hand. Perhaps I shouldn't take this too much to heart since, McDonald's is poor eating. And just about piss-poor. I write of the food bank. It's the place to which Cub Scouts' canned food drives let out. You enter the cold garage and are offered a piece of raisin cake, usually. Based on your income, you can select a number of items from a wall of goods. Believe me, it's uncomfortable. Not proctology uncomfortable, but you want it to be over just the same. I've been there three times, and it doesn't get easier. I was lucky the last time. I got all the ingredients for my signature soup. Also, cheese sticks. There have got to be companies unloading surplus to this place. Quite a lot of healthy cereal, and a number of what appear to be rations. Boxed UHT milk, powdered milk, canned pork, spud flakes, and five pound bags of frozen french fries, all given as "commodities." Most of this was quite exotic to me. Not in a tropical vacation fare sort of way, but still.
My situation isn't so bad. I am single, save a girlfriend in the wing. I live alone, and enjoy an abundance of my own time. I have a computer that would make you think I'm rich. I'm rich from what I take on, often through the computer. There was a man in the food bank the last time I was there. He was ahead of me in line. I overheard the manager say to a worker there, "Twelve members in his household." He was Asian, most likely from Laos. For twelve people in his household, he received twelve items. Seemed like a drop in the bucket. When I don't want to bake my fries because they don't taste as good as McDonald's fries, I will think of this man opening twelve cans of beans or whatnot, for one dinner with his family of fortunate ones.