Glad it ain't me

I am using cheap, selfish tactics to make myself feel better about, well, myself. If the area around my eyes is grey and puffy, I just say "Well, at least I'm thin." If I have to wear my socks for the second day in a row because I have no washing machine I say "Well, at least I'm resourceful." If a friend approaches me in a cafe and tells me his wife is about to give birth to their second child, I say, "Thank fucking god I'm not pregnant again."
Like I said, it's cheap, but it helps. At least for a little while, then I remember that I have 16 bucks to my name, holes in every piece of underclothing I own, except for a well-intentioned bustier that still has the tags on it. I was so desparate for a smoke last night I tried a Mustang 100 Menthol that my gay friend, Will, left in my car on Halloween. He dressed as Miss Piggy, snout and all. I got about 3 puffs into that cigarette and nearly puked over the rail of my deck. Yeah, not a menthol girl.
Actually, everyone I've talked to is broke, completely and utterly broke, and most of them are laughing about it. Being broke (and, in my case, nearly broken) adds a nice dimension to everything else. Suddenly, the kids having lice for the 90th time is funny, being in love and hating the person you love is funny, late fees on your credit card, hilarious, gay friends dressed as muppet characters, lol.
The only time it isn't funny is at night, but you can always take Nyquil if you get desperate. And if you can't afford that, I'm sure there's a children's Benadryl bottle lying around half-empty you can swig from.
For dinner, I waited til the kids went to bed and fried some stew beef and then added a can of cream of mushroom soup and some water and salt. It was go-od. I INHALED two bowls, all the while wondering if anyone could see me in my tiny kitchen lapping up broth like a starving dog.