Where is the Fucking Money?

Where is the fucking money, Lebowski? Where is the money? You had it. You know you had it. There was money in the checking account, and then you blinked, and now there is not. Where is the fucking money? Did it evaporate? Did a financial black hole open in your bank app? Did some shadowy figure in a suit take it and say, "Sorry, boss needs this" ? No, You reckless, tasteful little motherfucker spent it.

Is it the saffron? Of course it is. Not just any saffron—the good saffron. The tiny glass jar that cost more than an entire meal because you had a moment of delusion where you thought, "I deserve this." And honestly? You did. That meal was spectacular. And now the jar sits there, waiting for its next grand performance, which may or may not ever happen.

Is it the taxis again? Ah, yes. Bolt. Because you are apparently a person of great importance who cannot be expected to endure minor inconveniences. Did you need to take a taxi just because the tram was a little crowded? No. Did you do it anyway? You sure did. And you sat in the backseat like a millionare knowing full well you were paying with your next dinner for the privilege of avoiding that five-minute walk on that friday afternoon.

Is it in the shoes? The limited edition Converse. The ones that spoke to you. That promised you would become the kind of person who writes in cafés and gets invited to underground art shows. Did they deliver on that promise? No. Will they deliver that promise? Still no. But do they still make you feel something when you look at them? Yes. So maybe that’s worth something.

Is it in the online grocery shopping? Absolutely. You thought you were being smart. Efficient. You were not. Instead, you ended up with a mountain of kale because you had a fleeting health-conscious moment that immediately vanished when you realized you still don’t like kale. But now, against all odds, you do. Somehow. You’ve been kale-pilled. And that’s just life now.

It must be the Samyang noodles. You know the one. The nuclear red package and the funny chicken. The noodles that burned your mouth and possibly your soul, but you kept going back because pain is temporary, but the flavor is forever. Costs more than regular instant noodles, but you are not some ordinary instant noodle peasant. You have taste. You have standards. And now you have regrets, but only for the aftermath.

Is it in the full bottle of Kraken? Yes, yes it is. Did you buy it because you needed it? No. You bought it because the bottle looked like something a pirate would drink from, and for a brief moment, you thought, "Yes. I am also a pirate." That was a fun moment.

Is it in the taxes? Oh, for sure. Like the good little citizen you are, you gave a chunk of your money away to a government you don’t respect or believe in and actually only angers you in every instance you read about.

Is it in the purchases of the heart? The concert tickets you didn’t hesitate on because teenage-you would’ve punched you in the face if you missed that band? The fancy glasses with the gold trim that make you feel like royalty even when you’re just drinking tap water? The tiny, overpriced notebook that you’ll probably never write in but love just the same?

And now, you sit here, staring at your bank balance, your saffron, your beautiful shoes, your pirate rum, and your regal glasses, asking yourself once again: where is the fucking money, Lebowski?

It's down there somewhere, let me take another look.