I apologize for having lived beyond my means

I apologize for having lived beyond my means, gaily, freely, without stopping to think for a moment that my reckless behavior would contribute, years later, to the economic and social hecatomb of this country.

I apologize for having studied a major, for even having dared to fantasize, in the future, I could have a better job than my father's, Post-War period child and mechanics with no vocation at the already ceased AMC. I apologize for having used up hundreds of dollars in enrollments, books, pens, and sheets. And for having wasted the five dollars my mother gave me for a sandwich, which should always have been a peanut butter sandwich and never ever (God, shame on me) a cheese sandwich.

I apologize for having meant to work in something vaguely related to my studies or, at least, minimally qualified so that five years based on peanut butter sandwiches and some cheese sandwich (I squeeze my spiked belt again) had been worth it. How many means of living in accordance with my means I wasted! Telemarketing phone operator! Pollster! Spanish academy's advertising deliveryman! Putting letters into envelopes! I had, my goodness, my own future in my hands and I discounted it in a justifiable fit of pride, thinking that these fine activities were casual jobs! I apologize (I'm typing on my knees now, looking at the wall) for believing I deserved something better.

I apologize for having covered my body with clothes. Forgive me, I beg you, for every dollar invested on H&M. Why didn't I wear ponchos? A poncho is elegant, decent, and entirely compatible with my means. You take a sheet, make a hole for your head and that's it. I could have dyed the Sunday one with some color, even the riffraff has to afford coquetry once in a while. But… T-shirts? Blue jeans? Jackets? And (oh, God, take pity on me) an overcoat every two winters? But who did I think I was? A marquis? A football player? A human interest anchor? I'm now sinking the cutter in my forearm and staring at the blood running, because any suffering isn't enough to repay that many nasty things.

I apologize, I apologize, and I apologize. And I will accept any punishment the markets want to give me in these ruthless justice days. I apologize for having had an average range computer, for having asked for that import drink at my brother-in-law's wedding, for having invited to a VIP dinner to the girl I liked (you've got to deserve even the Crazy Nights 2x1 offer) and for having asked for a loan to study a master's degree, for having bought that viscoelastic mattress and not that one of iron springs, which is the one which belong to the ones from my caste; I apologize for having lived, once in a while, moderately unworried, for not having thought, restlessly, from day to night, about the future; for having read poetry, and not economics books; for having loved, laughed; and for having endured the terrible disease of wishful thinking.

And it's just that, now that I think about it, now that I watch the news broadcast and I read the last analysis of the recession and the consequences that spendthrifts like me are going to endure with all justice, I realize that I haven't lived beyond my means, but in the atmosphere, in the stratosphere, in the fucking leap to hyperspace of my means…

I didn't have any!