The start of each new month brings its economical storms, when the bottom line is transformed into transactional tidal waves of profit and loss, crests and troughs in our pocket books. It's an uncharted ocean with murky depths, sudden swells but also hidden rocks, difficult to navigate without a budgeting compass. I saw my financial advisor get swallowed by a great white whale and have been my own captain ever since. I sail up to the Wells Fargo teller in my yellow sou'wester and oilskin cape, peg leg clacking on the marble floor tiles. 'I'd like to make a deposit to Davy Jones' Locker and transfer fifty Spanish doubloons from my Dead Man's Chest,' I say. The teller shakes her head of seaweed hair and speaks, but all I hear is the mournful sound of the foghorn.
A spendthrift in spindrift, the old sea dog-eared dollar is tossed in a northerly gale. Batten down the bank balance and bale out those overdue bills. Beware the whirlpool of predatory lending: for around and around you go, unable to escape until you are finally sucked under. Try to find safe harbor in a high yield savings account, if you can. Land ahoy!, we hear from time to time, hoping it's Treasure Island. But more often than not, they're minting Robinson Crusoe's face on their promissory notes. Piracy seems the only way. Hoist the Jolly Bitcoin, I guess.