I know romanticizing poverty is kind of a hip literary thing to do, even after eight years in the White House, but being poor sucks. I didn’t feel romantic at all. Mostly I just felt sorry for myself.
The thing about living on beans and ramen noodles is that all forbidden fruits look delicious. Los Angeles offered so much junk food opportunity: Fatburger, Carney’s, Oki-Dog, Tommy’s, In-N-Out, taquerias, Pinks, on and on. I felt like some kind of Dickensian street urchin drooling over the plump goose in the window, not a farthing in my breeches.
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