The Intransigent Self

I cannot get over my obsession with cheap fruit. Ripe papaya, thirty bucks a kilo, bananas forty bucks a kilo, musk melon, thirty five, pineapple, again thirty. I buy a fruit a week, cut them up real nice, carry a fork with me wherever I go and eat them in the afternoon. Sometimes the papayas are slimy, the bananas are near black. But eat them still. I have always hated apples, and you can never trust oranges or grapes for how sour they might turn out to be, so I never prefer them. And pomegranate takes too long to peel and box and carry. So yes, I have my order of preference. With reason.

But why do I feel poor then? Is it because of my preference for cheap fruit? Is it because I am getting nowhere? Is it because I actually don't make as much money, as in cash. Or because no matter what I save, my savings are a pittance. Is it because I cannot make my money work hard? Is it because I have got no cushion. I am going to be middle class and work myself to exhaustion and a slow death, or a quick one preferably.

Is it because I don't have the clothes for it? Is it because my skin don't shine as much? Is it because I stutter when I need to speak of important things? Is it because I have zilch skills at impression management? Or because my growth in life is excruciatingly slow? Is it because I don't travel much? Is it because I end up staying home a lot? Is it because I don't pursue writing as much. Is it because of my fear of knowing that I ain't good enough on the surface or deep inside either.

Is it because of all this? That I find everything depressing. Endlessly so. And I distract myself with food and television. Or am I imagining my problems. Or am I just buying cheap fruit. I cannot remember which.