“$0 for Makeup, $1 for Life: Living Broke as Silly Sally”

By Silly Sally

I remember a time when money was a concept I barely noticed. Lunch with friends, a latte here, a lipstick there — those were small pleasures I never even counted. But now? Now money is a weapon, a trap, a cruel joke that refuses to land softly. I live paycheck to paycheck, counting pennies like they’re precious gems, praying the cat doesn’t ask me for rent, and hoping my friends remember I exist even though I can’t afford to see them.

It’s humiliating. Every time I open my fridge, I’m reminded that I’m no longer a person with desires — I’m a calculator with a heartbeat, tallying what I can and cannot afford. Milk is a luxury. Yogurt is a luxury. A proper meal is a fantasy. And makeup? Oh, sweet gods, makeup is now a mythical concept, whispered about on beauty blogs and Instagram posts, something that belongs to other women who have their lives together while I eat instant noodles and curse my life choices.

Friends Stop Visiting

The first warning sign came a few months ago. My friends stopped visiting. At first, I blamed them. “Busy,” they said. “Work,” they said. But I knew. I knew they had begun to notice my apartment: small, cluttered, sad. They didn’t want to see me because there was no wine to drink, no snacks to share, no fun to be had. I had become a place of guilt — a reminder that I, Silly Sally, could no longer afford normal life.

Invitations to brunch stopped coming. Birthday parties became impossible. Zoom calls became the only viable social outlet, and even then, I had to pretend I had lipstick on, pretend my hair wasn’t oily, pretend that my life wasn’t collapsing one overdue bill at a time.

The Cat Judges Me

Even my cat has started judging me. He sits on the counter, tail twitching, staring at me with those unblinking eyes of pure contempt. I swear he’s thinking about leaving. He’s probably googling other apartments with richer humans, plotting his escape while I stir my third cup of instant soup and feel my soul shrivel.

It’s humiliating when the only company you have begins to judge you silently. But the cat doesn’t leave. Not yet. He’s stuck, like me. And some days, that’s comforting, even though I know he secretly wishes he had a better life.

The Cost of Basic Survival

Every day is a tightrope walk between rent, bills, food, and dignity. Grocery shopping has become a cruel game of picking and choosing which essentials can survive the month. Bread or milk? Toilet paper or eggs? And if I splurge on something as frivolous as chocolate, I feel the sting of financial guilt like a branding iron.

Even something as simple as buying mascara feels like an affront to the universe. Once, I dared to browse Sephora online. My eyes lingered on a $30 lipstick, and I felt an overwhelming desire to scream. Thirty dollars. Thirty. Dollars. It might as well have been a small mortgage payment.

Luxuries Are Dead

Books I used to read, streaming subscriptions I used to have, coffees I used to savor — all gone. Gone because priorities are survival. Gone because the city doesn’t forgive those who can’t pay the bills. I catch myself daydreaming about going to the salon, getting my nails done, spending time in front of a mirror without guilt. It’s fantasy now. Luxuries are dead, and so is the illusion that I am anything but a weary, overworked, underpaid human who is slowly learning the true meaning of deprivation.

Social Isolation

Sitting alone in my apartment, I feel time stretch like taffy. Days blend into nights. Nights bleed into anxiety-filled mornings. Social media is a reminder that I am missing out: brunches, vacations, shopping sprees — other people’s lives flaunting what I can no longer afford. Invitations that once brought joy now bring shame. My friends are polite on the phone, but I can hear the unsaid thought: she can’t afford us anymore.

Even my hobbies, the tiny things that used to bring joy, are now luxuries. I can’t afford paint, brushes, yarn, or new books. I can barely afford the internet that I need to work. Everything that once defined me outside of bills and survival has vanished, leaving behind a hollow echo that repeats the phrase: you are broke, Silly Sally.

Anger and Frustration

Anger seeps into every corner of my life. I am angry at the bills that never stop, the rent that climbs every year, the coffee I can’t afford, and the cat who judges me silently. I am angry at the world for normalizing a lifestyle I can never reach, and I am angry at myself for being trapped in the system, for letting survival become my entire identity.

Sometimes I want to throw things. Sometimes I want to scream at the universe for being so cruelly efficient in punishing me. Sometimes I just sit in the dark and fantasize about a world where $30 for lipstick is laughable instead of devastating.

Coping with Survival

But survive I must. I calculate every meal. I reuse containers. I buy only what is necessary. I find joy in the smallest of things: a cup of coffee from a cheap diner, a sunny afternoon on my fire escape, a cat that still tolerates me, even if he is silently plotting my downfall.

I have begun using apps to track my spending, clipping coupons, and taking advantage of every promotion I can find. Survival isn’t glamorous, but it is tactical. It is a game of strategy and cunning, and I have become a master at it.

The Small Wins

I celebrate small victories: a free shampoo sample from the store, a sale on pasta, a friend who checks in via text. I find solace in knowing that even if my life is stripped down to survival, I am resourceful. I can endure. I can adapt. I can make $5 last a week.

Even my cat can’t take that away. He may judge, but he is also my companion in misery. And in some twisted way, I have begun to find dark humor in my situation. After all, if you can laugh while your bank account cries, maybe, just maybe, you can survive this madness.

Conclusion: The Reality of Living Broke

Being Silly Sally is not fun. It’s lonely. It’s bitter. It’s filled with judgmental pets, distant friends, and a constant awareness that every decision has financial consequences. Makeup? Gone. Luxuries? Gone. Fun? Mostly gone.

But I endure. I survive. And in the process, I’ve learned a lot: how to stretch $10 into a week’s worth of meals, how to find humor in misery, and how to live in a world that seems designed to make me fail.

To anyone else struggling in silence: you are not alone. The bills, the judgment, the cat’s disapproving glare — they are all part of the same absurd reality we are forced to navigate. And if you can find a way to laugh at it, even once a day, you are winning.