One of the most annoying things about my current life is my inability to secure five to seven thousand dollars. Five to seven extra dollars – meaning “take out an advance on my credit card” or “cash in on my 401K” aren’t options – and not just because that would put me over my limit, and I don’t have anywhere near that much money in my 401K – it’s the principal of the matter. I’m interested in 5-7 thousand dollars not previously factored into my situation. I believe it’s called a windfall? Or, that’s what it would be called if it wasn’t chump change for a banker – a post-recession banker. In my case I think it’s just called, some money.

That’s the amount of dollars I need to consider moving to an apartment with both a bedroom closet and structural divide between the kitchen and living room. With five to seven extra G’s I could re-join the gym, sometimes not go, and still sleep soundly at night. Just a measly well under 10K and I could pay off those credit cards, buy a super chic pair of extra-thick glasses and say, “yes, sign me up for Children’s International right now on this sidewalk so I can never again have to pull out my cell phone when I see you from 25 yard away and make like I’m talking to my great Aunt Millie in Orlando.”

Those dollars would change my entire life. No exaggeration – no hidden agenda (outside those glasses which, frankly, I need if I’m going to take this writer situation to the next level).

And so I spend a fair chunk of my life brainstorming ways to get my hands on said G’s. I research research studies at Columbia. I bite all the gold in every jewelry box in my apartment hoping some of it is gold. I contemplate applying to ghost write one of the million sci-fi-autobiographical-romance novels that people are always advertising they need help with on Craigslist (think maybe you can’t write it because it’s a bad idea…). Hell, I self-published a god-damned book figuring over time enough people might buy enough copies to get me to goal. Unfortunately it turns out 5,000 divided by $5 is 1,000…

So I’m mad – well – mad but more-so frustrated. Not because I don’t have the five to seven thousand dollars I so desire, ney, need, but because $5 to $7 to $10,000 are constantly flying in across my face only to land in the laps and accounts and businesses of people other than me.

A few months ago I participated in a project involving the printing of many pretty posters – pretty unnecessary (I know, but it was right there…) – that cost damn-near my entire goal amount. A publicist friend recently booked a speaking engagement for her writer client – 10K for two talks – talks about dating in your 20s… In a few weeks I’ll take a business trip to totaling up to 6K. So how ’bout instead I do the work from here for 3,000K and we call it money you owe me anyway?

It’s a funny thing I’ve found about life in this age-range. The smallest changes can make the most massive impact, but it’s like the smaller it is, the harder it can be to get – just seven less pounds, just five thousand dollars, just one (to two…) decent guys.

I want that money! I need that money! And – and here’s the reason for the whining – I deserve that money!

Maybe that’s my pitch to the universe? “Hi, I know the money is there and for x,y,z reasons it should be mine, so can I have some?” If I watched that Oprah episode correctly there’s some Secret process by which that is supposed to work…

Maybe I’ll whip up an image board and write a fake check to myself for that amount – that’s if my pitch to be the mystery genius behind A Botox-shot in Time, the semi-true story of dermatologist-by-day who gets a new lease on love from some very unexpected out-of-earth arrivals – doesn’t get me the gig…

And in the meantime – did I mention that I wrote a book…