Broke-Rich Bitches Be Like…

…”Cell phone disconnected as fuckkkk but I’m goin’ to Mexico on a cruise bitchhhhh!!”

(True story).

So you’re already questioning the validity of my opinion on what defines a “broke bitch”- I get it. It’s more like irresponsible-as-fuck-bitch-who-will-never-have-her-priorities-in-life-straight-bitch. But in my defense, for all you know I am guilty of religiousless  (I’m pretty sure that’s not a proper word but bare with me, I make shit up as I go. If Snoop Dogg and Lil’ Wayne can destroy the English language then so can I.) and unspeakably dirty acts which paid my way onto said boat. But that’s not what’s important right now. Let’s stick to the topic. Besides, I would never jeopardize my classy as fuck reputation for a vacation. For coffee though… anything goes. Baby you had me at “venti”.

Honestly though- I struggle. The struggle really, truly fucking IS real despite the abuse of the cliche. I work my ass off in a day-job that I am fully in love with and fully committed to, and I hustle as a cake designer after-hours from home for the extra income and for my passion for the art. My fiancé is the most hard-working and dedicated hustler I have EVER met in my entire life. And to be frank, we make really good money! But we live an expensive ass life. Womp womppp. Yes, we struggle by choice.

I am a broke bitch because I choose to be. We purchased the house that I fell in love with at first sight (which was way over our budget) just this past July and we have put every penny into making it our dream home very slowly but surely. Our kids are ridiculously blessed and spoiled, and we NEVER spend a weekend stuck at home. We are over-spenders. Our credit cards are racked up as fuck.  We have an expensive car payment (but Jesus Christ I love pulling up to a red light in my monster ass Jeep next to a tiny little man in a red Honda and watching his balls detach from his body, climb out of his window, and commit suicide against oncoming traffic. RIP little man’s balls).  And we have no fucking money saved. But you know what? We also have no fucking regrets. We live week-to-week but we make shit happen and then some. We eat well, we live well, we dress well, we laugh, we watch our kids LIVE, and so being kinda-broke ends up being alright considering how much worse things could be. We definitely do not have our shit together but as long as we’re together, (ok fuck the poetry…we just DON’T have our shit together point blank).

Anyways, A good friend of mine’s recently made a comment that kind of sparked this whole post. We were in a big group chat about our upcoming cruise to Mexico and I was all like “Sorry I’m always the broke bitch of the group..” because I was complaining about 40 fucking bucks to take a bus to and from the port. She responded with an enlightening “Many of us are on the same page, you’re just more VOCAL about it” or something along those lines about being vocal. And I felt like half asshole half President of  Brokebitchlandia.

I’m fully aware of HOW vocal I am. I mean. I’m vocal as fuck. But what sucks is how many of  YOU aren’t vocal at all. I know that we choose what parts of our lives others know about, and we choose to behave according to who we’re with or where we are. We control what we post on social media and this gives others the perspective of us that WE ourselves have already created for them. I just choose to not give any fucks. None of us are right or wrong.  But I mean is it NOT exhausting to throw shade all the time? I’ve always been SO incredibly open with people about my life, and while I don’t necessarily expect others to spill their guts to me, it would be so nice if people would just say more. I put myself out there every single day. I say exactly what the fuck I feel because I really wasn’t born with a filter. I defend the fuck out of myself and I will also shank a hoe if the opportunity arises.  I have never been ashamed to speak openly about my most shameful experiences or my deepest darkest pains. Why should anything in my life be a fucking secret? Who am I proving WHAT to really? The fact is I’m going to die someday and leave nothing behind. Nothing. If my most difficult, or craziest moments in life could for one second help someone, or inspire someone…then I left something behind.

I wish some of you were a little more like this. Not like me. For fucksake I’m no mentor. But just generally, more open with others who feel like they’re literally alone in so many aspects of life. I feel alone ALL. THE. TIME. On my free time I google “cheap therapists in Miami” even though I perceive all therapists to be fucking retarded robots trained to be predictably numbing and unhelpful as fuck. I am who I am but I often feel so stupid because why am I the only going through shit!?  Why am I the only one who cares about my underarm fat out loud? Why am I the only one who forgave the love of her life for irreversibly fucking breaking her heart? Why am I the only one who pretends to talk on a disconnected cell phone to distract her from PEOPLE around her because she suffers from severe social anxiety?

Maybe if people were more fucking vocal, there would be less suicide. And less Trump. And less expensive coffee. And more trust.

I may be financially broke. I may be emotionally challenged. And I may require medication of some kind. But my fucking soul is rich.

Unapologetically Yours,

The Brokest Richest Bitch Alive.

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Author: Ely

Stormy-day-Chaser, Wit-Warrior, Unapologetically-Cool-Mom, Humor-Junkie, Queen-o-Drama, Caffeine-Addict, Self-Made-Cake-Hustler, Ranter-of-ALL-things, Word-Thug, Pet-Unlover, Sassy-Introvert, Effervescent-Soul.

3 thoughts on “Broke-Rich Bitches Be Like…”

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