For a time– a rather foolish time, as you may as well say so– I even had the gall to tell the world at large that it was of little consequence to me; that it was the least of my more pressing, more bohoepicurean concerns, money– as long, of course, as I had it.

As long as mommy was there to refill my ravaged wallet or rouse my bank account from its deathbed, I couldn’t have given a smidgen of a damn about money or however I intend to earn some for myself the someday I wish would never come.

But it has.

It has to, at least. It’s just painfully bound to and I should start learning to rid myself of the bondage of my still suckling on my mother’s metaphorical breast.

I’d like to take this moment to thank myself for that really bad, really vivid mental picture.

And moving on.