Summer is here and I need to get the air conditioning on my '98 VW fixed. I think it is time this Class 'A' gold digger took a trip to a discount store to get a new pair of heels. It's hunting season! You see, I've been accused of being a gold digger, but I'm not sure I'm doing it right. Being a gold digger isn't easy. Once you decide to not work and let men do all the work, well that takes a lot of work. Yes, it's easier if you're a hottie like me, but it still requires skill.
I'm not saying my little gold shovel hasn't left a trail of hearts and a bursting bank account. I do have tens of dollars in profit. I just think there might be room for improvement.
My UK boyfriend was a marvelous find. I moved to London to spend all his hard-earned cash. We lived in splendor above a partially condemned Camden pub, walking miles in the knee-high rain (He, I mean we, have a thing against cabs and the Tube). He would cook for me every night: buttered bread and frozen breaded fish with rice. Or bread. We would give my gluten allergies the middle finger and laugh as my throat closed up. Some days he took me to dinner at the Sainsbury grocery market and let me pick out anything I wanted from the two day-old bargain bin. I kept telling myself not to concern myself with trivial things like his character, or love, after all, I was living such a lavish lifestyle. It's what is in his wallet that counts. Bling, bling.
I forced one previous boyfriend to get a job when I was laid off. He was used to keeping my couch warm when he wasn't coming up with important lyrics for indie rock songs. But I meant a job that paid money. This gold digger wanted some soy milk in her cereal. He picked up a couple days work doing some substitute teaching at Fairfax High, and he was cool with it because it happened to be where Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers went to school.
On day two, he came home and curtly announced he would not be going back since he had been shoved inside a locker. Nobody puts Baby in a locker! That's okay, I just took my little ATM machine to the place where he got most of his money -- his parents! They made us a delicious dinner, Jell-O ambrosia and all, and even slipped him a couple twenties. Baby proudly announced that meant we could save the Hamburger Helper he had bought for a rainy day. I didn't even know they still made Hamburger Helper! You keep your trim looking like mine and you get men treating you to the finer things in life.
Of course sometimes being a gold digger has its drawbacks. You have to put your shallowness aside for the sake of the Benjamins, because not all rich men are handsome. In the case of the famous comedian, it was doubly true. But he was kinda funny! And he thought I was funny too, which helped.
This comic did well for himself and landed several roles in blockbuster films. He had so much money in the bank that I didn't mind it when he forgot his wallet every time I picked him up and we went out for dinner. Newly rich and famous men have a lot on their minds and can't be bothered to remember every little thing! Honestly, I was just thrilled for him and I knew that after supporting him for months, he would repay me by sticking by me in the future. It would all even out in the end, for we would be together forever, and ever, and ever. He probably still thinks about me.
As the temperature rises and I soak through my clothes every time I run a quick errand, I realize I need to work harder so I don't have to work at all! I've perused in the Learning Annex syllabus for gold digger classes. Nothing. I've spent several weekends hanging out in midscale hotel bars hoping some seasoned digger would take me under her wing and give me some pointers on how to score a Sugar Daddy. I'd love to go to Paris! Or eat dinner this week! The bar was also a bust. Hotel bartenders have a different name than gold digger, which is not flattering. Like they aren't shaking it for tips.
I guess I will have to keep looking for my GD guru. If only Dr. Phil or Oprah knew more on the subject. I bet they could really help. Kanye?
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