Guest Author: Keri Ramos

One of the most fun things about doing this whole "guest author" gimmick is finding "new" writers. Keri Ramos is one of my new favorites. Why? Well, check out her Twitter bio:



"I'm pretty rad. I say inappropriate things quite frequently. I halfheartedly write a pseudo-funny blog. I dig music. And dinosaurs."



Clearly, she's me as a twenty-something-year-old woman. How could I not love that? See more at the appropriately-titled Filthy Nerdy, which she describes as "an elitist, profane examination of trivial, everyday things". I love that too.

I have never been so poor in my entire life. Admittedly, I’m not very responsible with money anyway, but usually it’s because I spend $50 on someone else before spending $20 on myself. I once paid for someone’s abortion. Having never paid for or had an abortion myself (I’m not a right to life-er, I just know how to use birth control correctly, as opposed to everyone else in my hometown. Seffner represent!) I had no idea they were so costly. Whoever invents a safe, do-it-yourself option available for purchase at Target will be a millionaire. After financially backing a murder, I had to cancel some plans in the upcoming weeks due to lack of funds, but my friend didn’t have to raise her rapist’s baby. Everyone wins!

I know money doesn’t buy happiness, but it does buy dresses from Forever21 and chai tea lattes from Sacred Grounds and Urban Decay eye shadow and it could also help me pay for books at USF and fix my car which was accidentally clusterfucked in a rear-ended sandwich by my little brother. But I have no money so I currently have none of these things. And even though I am still lucky enough to have a place to live and things to eat, I am, at times, acutely aware of the fact that I have never been so poor in my life. It’s an annoying kind of poor; I’m not living on the streets or fighting for my survival, I just miss out on social events and guilty pleasures (read: drinking excessively at bars with friends and buying weird music documentaries).

When my car was operational a few weeks ago, I gave my buddy a ride to and from the airport when he went to Colorado to visit family. His return flight landed at midnight and after I collected him, we met a third buddy out for beers to catch up on adventures. Traveling buddy was kind enough to pick up my modest tab, and not because I whined about being poor, but because dealing with the Tampa airport twice in one week without getting to leave Tampa sucks. He also brought me back a shirt from the Colorado dinosaur museum and it has five dinosaurs on it and it is way better than any Forever21 dress. He found it for me at a thrift store and it is my newest and quite possibly favorite article of clothing in the history of clothes I’ve worn.

I’ve started a new tradition known to those who attend it as Family Dinner. It’s so badass and important that we capitalize Family Dinner via text and tweets. Aside from my brother, no one who attends is actually related to me, but they are the kind of family that stumbled into my life some way or another and if they were to leave now I’d be very upset. Everyone brings something to the table, literally. A bunch of social misfits and odd characters show up with pasta and various sauces and garlic toast and drinks. And it’s awesome. The crowd varies week to week, and we keep adding new people but that’s okay because pasta isn’t very expensive and I don’t buy it anyway. I make the meatballs. It happens most Wednesdays and afterwards we go to the Pegasus Lounge for Porneoke. It’s karaoke with a giant screen onstage playing (really awful) porn. The singers in the Family sing everything from Frank Sinatra to Beyonce. And the guy who sings “Single Ladies” also does the dance from the video. It’s a wholesome family activity, and I dare you to have more fun.

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, which has me paralyzed with writing anxiety, but I have an awesome Fiancé who bought me a desk and a chair so I would have a legitimate place to write during this arduous challenge. I think he felt sad for me when he watched me sit on my bed Native American style (I’m assuming we can’t say “Indian style” anymore) with my laptop sitting on top of an overturned laundry basket. The desk is nice and the chair is awesome (it has a ‘mod’ pattern that looks like the 70s threw up on it) but I’m more taken by the fact that he believed in me enough to encourage my endeavors. Or he loved me enough to shut me up about not having a desk and not being able to use the kitchen table because the refrigerator is so loud. Fuck you, Whirlpool.

I’m sure you’ve guessed, through my heartwarming tales of life being rich even though I’m not, is that money doesn’t buy happiness and even though I’m woefully destitute, I’m still wonderfully in love with my existence.

You would be wrong. I have cool dinosaur shirts and Family Dinner and karaoke (now with porn!) and usually someone buys me a shot there and I am currently typing at my fancy desk. These things are free for me, but they cost someone else money. And all the shit I legitimately need? That’s still expensive.

My point is that my friends are better than yours. And luckily for me, they aren’t as broke as I am right now.