Faux Poverty

Dear Butch,

I am about to get sassy on your ass, like drag queen snapping her new french manicure sassy.

Bitch please!  Who are you going around telling everyone and their mama’s that you are poor.  Really?!?  You inform any person, animal, or plant that you encounter that you are “so poor” and “can’t spend any money”.  And then, you go and buy an airline ticket to fly your ass off to vacation with your long distance fuck buddy.  Or, you head to a swanky department store about buy a $45 t-shirt that you call “vintage” but is actually just a super sheer cotton blend.  And should we throw in the restaurant bills you rack up?

Okay, need to breath.  Putting the queen back in the closet.

At first I believed you.  When we first meet you mentioned your occupation and some of your past struggles and my heart broke a bit.  You have been through many of a crisis, almost too many for one young person to carry on their own.  I invited you out to dinner and offered to pay, not out of sympathy but out of empathy.  I willingly and happily purchased you small gifts.  I wasn’t trying to win your friendship over with material goods, but genuinely thought you deserved small gifts of love and encouragement.  And now, a few months later, you turn out to just be a gold digging dyke.

You claim to be poor, in your slightly high class home and your fancy newish car.  You have many electronic toys and gadgets.  You purchase only organic food and name brand pieces of clothing.  You have fancy memberships, an overpriced haircut, and a slight addiction to custom rolled cigars.  You, my darling butch, are far from poor.  In fact, you could cut many luxuries out of your life and still comfortable fit in the middle class.

The next time you claim to be poor, I am going to ask you to come serve lunch in a soup kitchen with me.  Or play kickball with children in a shelter.  Be cautious with your words my dear friend, they have a way of coming back and biting you in the ass.

 

Love,

Femme

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