Dropping out of school has proven to be simultaneously one of the best and worst decisions of my life. It has been my experience that most things have many faces. Even a piece of paper has two sides. Secrecy, too, is not a one-way street. As my private reading list and Ace bandage binding experiments were a mystery to my parents, so their credit card bills and bank statements were to me. I do not blame them for this, and at the time, I didn’t care. I figured other facets of adult life would be discovered the way sex had been, in books or by shakily typing “i like girls” into my search engine at the age of sixteen. Unlike sex, however, financial matters held little interest.

When I packed up my dorm room and headed out on my own, boarding a Greyhound with a duffel bag and too much plastic in my pocket, I was born again. Like a child, I stared out the greasy window at fourteen states and too much farmland, places I’d heard of but had never visited and would likely not see again. I was in awe of the enormity of the world and the task I had undertaken.

Over the past year, I have been incredibly stupid and incredibly lucky. I maxed out my credit card in the first three weeks on my own, increased my credit limit, applied for another card, and promptly maxed both cards out again. I had no sense of a budget or time management. Once, I had to feel up the couch for enough change to make rent. Switched digits in my phone number made over 50 job applications and resumes useless.

Now I make just under the federal poverty guidelines. I share a tiny apartment and can’t make first+last+deposit to move into a new place. I am fighting for independent and state resident status so that I can afford to go back to school. I’m biding my time by paying the minimum on my credit cards. Even though I should be paying more, the money’s got to come from somewhere. There are no corners to cut when you are walking in a circular room.

I’ve tried to quantify it, to create an equation that tells me the impact of leaving everything behind. It always comes up in the red. According to my spreadsheets, I should be miserable. And I’m not. This is probably why I am not an accountant, despite getting a double-dose of the CPA gene, no thanks to my parents. Despite all the challenges in my life, I have a better understanding of the whole picture. I accept my financial mistakes, understand the consequences, and I know what to do to fix them. There’s hope, too.

This series is about all of that. During my time here, I hope to pass on some of the lessons, observations, and stories from my life as the prince of paupers, a queer ex-street kid.

Photo credit: stock.xchng.