You can’t make something happen with seven dollars.  You can buy four rolls of toilet paper from the corner store, the one that sells them individually, for people like you who look at the empty toilet roll holder mid-poop and think, there’s a missing piece to this puzzle and I’d better get that piece.  So you pull it (the half-exposed turd) back in, which feels like gravel in a pork casing, and you go get four rolls, a dollar each.  Three dollars left.  Still no options, unless you involve an ATM but they’re so smug about it, and they always look at your balance without asking.

You wouldn’t be thinking about this if you had friends.  She’d be telling you her sister’s pregnant again with that “how indecent doesn’t she understand how this affects me as a single woman” look, he’d be telling you he was so gone last night that every step felt like chocolate pudding.  And you’d nod your head in a “can I get a witness” kind of way, even though you’d be wondering if it’s a boy or girl and what difference does the flavor make, but these are banal wonderings, the kind too exhausting to express, so you’d only wonder.

You don’t want friends, though.  You want a lover.  A lover you can share an XXXL suitcoat with (like the one you saw in that thriftstore).  A lover who looks at you like you’re the Eiffel tower and a dog with a broken leg rolled into one.  A lover who’ll take a sharpie and write “you are everything” on you while you’re sleeping, somewhere discreet, under clothing, that you’ll find when you’re showering, that won’t come off for weeks.

You can’t have a lover. You’ve lost your fantasy privileges, based on the above paragraph.  You’re too selfish for a lover.  You have to focus on them otherwise it all collapses like so many cheap bookcases from Wal-Mart.

You can’t make something happen with three dollars.