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Paying rent is optional.
If you borrow money from your partner, just pay them back with one thousand kisses.
Opening a restaurant in Santa Fe is a lucrative business venture requiring absolutely no hard work. Just overcharge the wealthy clientele.
An excellent freelance gig is to get hired by a lady in a limousine to drum on a ten-gallon plastic pickle tub until a rich man’s dog kills itself by swan diving into the courtyard of the Gracie Mews.
Another viable path to financial stability: re-wire an ATM at the Food Emporium to spit out free money to anyone with the code.
If you’re staging a performance art protest and don’t pay your sound engineer, she won’t show up—forcing you to call your ex, who will tango with your current girlfriend and correctly predict your future infidelity.
A used car is comparable in price to a used guitar.
Supporting oneself and one’s artist friends by renting condos at the top of a building is a monstrous idea that could be hatched only by a sellout asshole, whereas having no jobs, ambitions, or means of paying for one’s life in the East Village is heroic.
Or go back to Scarsdale—the land of wealth, privilege, and hot plates.
If you’re a squatter, there’s hope, but just in case: rope.
Licensing your documentary video footage to viral news media outlets is frowned upon, whereas not being able to afford a tea the other day is laudable.
One song will bring you glory only if you finish writing it.
Sexy dancing at the Cat Scratch Club is an admirable job, but you might have to carry around handcuffs if you want to get recognized.
If you can’t pay for utilities, remember that candles go out quickly.
Today may be for you, but tomorrow is for me. Compounding interest, bitches!
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