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a smaller ass while you’re at it?”
    “I’ll give it a try,” I say. “By the way, do you know what the tenant laws are in Illinois? How long can you technically go without paying your rent before your landlord can have you forcibly removed?”
    “If you need a loan, you know I’m happy to give you a loan.”
    I’m tempted, but I can’t take Steph’s money. She’s got as much credit card debt as I do.
    “No, that’s OK,” I say. “I’m just going to squat.”
    My landlord is a Frenchman named Bob whose thickly accented English makes it sound like he is spitting rather than talking. He also yells, which can be frightening and intimidating, except that once, after he’d drunk quite a lot of vodka, he told me that he only did that because he hates being asked to repeat himself. Bob wears his bathrobe at all times, and showers about once a quarter. He has a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, even in midmorning, and he used to have a soft spot for my former roommate Karen, who moved out four months ago to live with her Almost-Fiancé, leaving me high and dry with rent to pay.
    Bob lives in the top floor apartment, and, as he’s averse to exercise, he rarely comes downstairs. I’m counting on his laziness to allow me a few days extra before he starts coming to look for his rent.
    The afternoon passes in a series of talk shows, starting with the high-end ones with B-list actors as guests, like The View, and ending with your low-grade circuses like Montel Williams.
    I realize that it’s been hours since I’ve left my couch, and I wonder how long it takes to develop couch sores, or for muscles to atrophy so completely that I won’t be able to walk to the bathroom unassisted. After that, I could be a guest on Maury Povich — the Sloth Girl — crippled from aggressive, reckless laziness.
    Maybe that’s my career calling — talk show guest. I imagine a line of T-shirts with Sloth Girl logos on them, a tell-all best seller about my downward spiral into catatonic laziness. I can see my brother Todd being interviewed on the Today show: “I tried to tell her to get a job but she wouldn’t listen — and now look at her — confined to her couch for life.”
    Because I realize that Maury Povich should not be my highest aspiration, I decide that it’s about time I do something constructive and deal with the bills from last month. I have sorted them into three piles: 1) bills I won’t ever pay; 2) bills I would pay if I had the money; and 3) bills that I am going to pretend I never got.
    I’m going to spend the entire day canceling services. This does not make me happy. This makes me feel poor.
    Digital cable. In Style magazine. Cell phone. People magazine. I say goodbye to them all.
    Digital cable is the worst. I wait online for a half hour to talk to a real person about disconnecting service.
    It’s insulting, really. They assume poor people have plenty of time to sit around listening to “Baby Got Back” — the Muzak flute version. Poor people’s time is not valuable. People of means wouldn’t sit on hold for twenty-eight minutes, waiting for their service to be disconnected. It’s what the companies count on.
    While I am on hold, I stare out my front window. I watch the old lady who lives on the first floor come out with her dog, a white, fluffy thing that’s about the size of a grapefruit. I’ve never formally introduced myself, but her mailbox says “Slatter.” She doesn’t pick up the dog’s poop like she’s supposed to. I’ve seen her kick dirty snow over it and move on.
    I watch as she makes her way straight over several big ice patches on the sidewalk. I guess that’s the kind of confidence you have when your health insurance is covered by Medicare.
    While still on hold, I tear myself away from the window and head to my refrigerator. I never thought of myself as a pig, but I’ve run through my gourmet groceries at a rapid clip. There are a few Diet Cokes, some wilted vegetables that I