My second cup of coffee was already filled, but there was still a bit of coffee left in the pot. My roommate had overestimated the amount of coffee it would take to fill up four mugs. I sipped a bit out of my cup. It was rather hot since coffee left in the pot was kept hot as it waited to be consumed. I stood, waiting for it to cool down a bit before I created enough room to finish off the pot.

After pushing production of our coffee over the limits of our consumption, I accused my roommate of creating a coffee surplus. Misuse of our meager resources on a continued basis would mean that sometime in the future, our coffee supply would run out before we were done drinking coffee.

My roommate argued that everything would even out. The surplus was not a large amount of coffee, and, to be honest, it was more about water consumption, rather than coffee. He'd put the same amount of coffee in the maker as he usually did, but slightly overfilled the reservoir with water. What had actually occurred, he said, was the creation of slightly diluted coffee. I shouldn't mind this, he pointed out, since I put so much other shit in my coffee (milk, Irish cream, etc.). I dilute it more than his slight overuse of water.

All this arguing made my coffee cool enough to drink. I took a few sips and then put the remaining amount of coffee into my cup. The coffee pot was empty, I switched off the coffee machine and walked away from the kitchen. The room's subsequent occupation by flagrant budget deficit flag wavers was too much for me to bear.

I searched the bookshelf and found an unread copy of The Right Stuff.

What about this, I yelled, throwing the large book at him. We've had this book for years and you've never read it. You probably haven't even read the introduction or the preface.

You bought that book, he said. How can it be my fault?

I bought the book because you said you wanted to read it, I countered. In your budget for 2001, the need to read The Right Stuff was in your primary action items. I acquiesced, knowing that I'd never get to it since I can't even get up the enthusiasm to watch the incredibly long movie based on the book--and that would only take four to five hours depending on the types of drugs I accompany the viewing with!

Well, what about this! he yelled back, waving a copy of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. You're not a feminist! And you've never read this either.

I calmly explained that I'd when I got the book I thought that reading up on feminist theory would help me get some pussy.

How are you ever gonna learn if you never crack the book? he demanded.

It's not about learning, I said, quickly changing my position on the matter. It's about representing the bitches. If I have the book on my bookshelf, the implication is I care. Even if I have no idea what the book is actually about. I paused and then guessed, She dies right?

Obviously your plan isn't working, my roommate snapped. And rightly so.

My inclusion of certain feminist texts in the budget over the last few years has produced little in terms of quantifiable results. It turns out most women don't read Virginia Woolf, either. She's kind of depressing.

As a matter of fact, my roommate went on to say, your only useful contributions to the household's budget are the new soccer ball and expanded alcohol expenditures (an increase of approximately 20% over the year before, mostly due to more expensive bottles of scotch).

With that, he went to the TV and began talking back to the heads bobbing on and on about the Prez's inability to understand what any of the other leaders at the G-8 summit were saying. Apparently the Prez said something about "all these Frenchies talking in dead languages," to one of his aides. Half of the heads agreed with the Prez on this point, and the others complained the Frenchies never had weapons of mass destruction, so why is the Prez being such a dick? Someone was off-topic, I suspected. But who knows about those bobbing heads?

I finished my coffee and ran to the park to kick the soccer ball around. When I got back, my roommate had poured a couple of stiff scotches.

To future budget surpluses, he toasted. Amen, I said.

Matt Worley doesn't even balance his checkbook.