I'd hate to be the first to admit it, but I couldn't be caught living being the last, so here it is: I'm not the best at keeping track of my finances. Which, looking back, I figure played a role into why I ended up trading my penis for a VHS copy of "Willow" starring Warwick Davis. I obtain most of my belongings from second hand Goodwill's and thrift shops, often during later hours and at deep discount. But it's become more difficult to do my thing, as lately a lot of college youth have found it in vogue and "ethical" to buy their clothes from thrift shops, and I can't blame them. What irks me is the fun they have doing it, furiously whistling "King of Carrot Flowers" as they pass each other. What are they looking for in this found object pavilion? Late stage consumerist pornographers, watching me. They waltz through showing off their baggies of trail mix like I don't notice, pretentiously filled with acorns and potpourri, like raisins are too mainstream.

Do you think my dad had fun perusing the Goodwill next to his sober home? Well, yes he did, but that's not the point, we didn't have a choice, since birth it was used undies or walmart clearance undies and full priced undies we wore for hats. But if he did get to choose, yeah, he probably would have chosen to be like the hip young thrift shoppers, but that's not the point either.

The point is two things, first stop appropriating thrift culture. And more importantly stop all these middle class millennials from clogging the aisles. It makes it so much harder for me to lift from them. Now some workers noticed and pegged me, no doubt from the self portrait titled "the creep thief" I short-sightedly traded in last month.

I've tried changing my hats to throw them off, to no avail. They all know my name. Sometimes one of the clerks wears a near matching hat just to show me they know. And what to do if I got caught: say "well actually those thumbtacks' whispers were digging into me, therefore you can see I had to take them." I've got caught with socks full of books, bras full of plastic baggies of broken toys. No, none of that would work this time, there is nothing more shameful than being caught stealing outmoded media technology. That's why Ed Snowden had to resign from the NSA.

If I were to get anything today I'd have to use what's in my pants pocket. And once I saw that VHS of Willow, its crooked cracked cover art, the pixelated picture of a young Warwick Davis in elf ears, his arms raised because while the cover artist was sketching him, the whole cast and crew were robbed at gunpoint. All that film inside, ripe to be cracked open and lick up all the movie meat. I took my bricklayer's scalpel and snipped the salami. Before it could even say goodbye to my pubes, I slapped that sausage on the counter and demanded the movie. Once my penis was free it tried to quote Sartre, fumbling over its words and eventually just gave up and said "stomp on me."

The clerk looked at my detached dong, as my breath and blood leaked and climbed back into me. With such hope he said, "it's what I always wanted, but God didn't pay proper postage and I never got one." I got lucky, most folks probably wouldn't have taken a cut-off cock for currency. But I finally owned me a copy of the three year in a row "Best Original Screenplay" Oscar winner.

And now my thighs can finally breathe, and let out all sorts of fun liquids laced with taxidermied dreams. The only downside is people insist on going down and checking out my scars. Some people have started complimenting me, now they can see the gaping hole, and no one ever did that before. At least not that I could hear.