Dear Aunt Judy:

I’m writing to you from a café around the corner from my apartment. There’s free wireless here. In these trying economic times, I no longer find it sensible to pay some greedy company for the right to surf the Internet at home. Also, my neighbor blocked his wireless. So I come here on Sundays to handle my email correspondence. And I feel better for it! This café, in fact, with its charming mugs and toasted bagels and cheerful, caffeinated people, fills me with a warmth that nothing in the world could buy.

In your last email to me, you asked me how I was getting along. Like many of us, I have been thinking a great deal lately about money and its related temptations. Or rather, I’ve been thinking about how to live without them. And I have cut back in so many areas that I allow myself but One Small Luxury each week. It’s here, at this café.

As soon as I finish emailing, I will walk to the counter and purchase a small cup of coffee and a copy of The New York Times Sunday Edition. This luxury unfolds slowly as I sit with the paper into the languid hours of late afternoon. Your favorite nephew loves The Sunday Times! And though $5 a week/$20 a month (not counting tax) is nothing to sneeze at these days, it’s a small price when compared to the idea that, without it, I might go a tiny bit insane.

I know you like to keep up with me, Aunt Judy! So I will tell you about the rest of my week. After reading my favorite paper, I head to the movies. I don’t care what’s playing. I just need to get through the loneliest of hours, those dark Sunday evenings before the workweek begins. A movie – good or bad – and $10 in candy seems to do the trick. I call Sunday night at the theater My One Small Weekend Movie Luxury.

Monday, I work, and then I really need a drink. A bar around the corner has $2 PBRs starting at 6 p.m. One can hardly call a $2 PBR, even multiplied by six, a luxury! Especially with the hangover those 24-oz. canned beverages cause! But the bar also serves up karaoke on Monday nights. When drunk, you know what an American Idol I can be. The memory of these performances is My One Small But Much-Needed Hangover Luxury, which helps me survive Tuesday’s head-throbbing work.

Wednesday, I quit pretending that I still have a job – I got laid off a month ago, actually, meant to tell you – and I sleep all day in the nude, saving on food and laundry costs. This, by my financial calculations, gives me enough money for a new video game at GameStop. Wednesday nights, then, are My One Small Night of New Video Game Luxury. I invite friends over, and so I spend a little on the cheese and Jagermeister. But what’s a night of video games and friends without accompaniment?

Thursday night: Netflix. I have no idea how this works, just that movies keep showing up in my mailbox. Do you know if Netflix costs money? If so, somebody make it stop! Until then, let’s call it My One Small Accidental Weekly Movie Luxury.

Friday night is Date Night, which is the singular luxury I cannot afford to pass up. Rebecca is so dear to me, and the least I can do is take her to her favorite French restaurant and get her tipsy over a bottle of wine. Or, since she broke up with me a few weeks ago, the least I can do is keep returning to our favorite restaurant and get drunk on that bottle, and another, waiting to catch Rebecca dining with another, more employed suitor. I call this My One Small But Very Necessary Luxury Regarding My Reputation. This is sometimes followed by My One Small Strip Club Night Luxury.

Which brings us to Saturday. Ah, Saturday. Have you ever noticed that Saturdays are boring? So far, I have filled them with My One Small Amusement Park Luxury, My One Small Live Concert Luxury, My One Small Heavy Drug Use Luxury, and My One Small Japanese Spa Treatment Luxury. I’m on my third rotation of these. If you have any ideas for other luxuries, I’m open. In fact, I’m apparently being kicked out of my apartment for nonpayment of rent. But that gives me a little extra cash for the things that matter, then, doesn’t it?

If you speak to my parents, please let them know how I am suffering now that they have stop sending checks. I hope to see you soon. And as your favorite nephew, I say this with love: Please send money.

Yours.