On a Thursday evening in early May I came home from school to discover a mysterious stack of bills piled on my kitchen table. Actually, they weren’t mysterious at all—I just don’t like paying for anything that isn’t clothing. My Swedish roommate appeared in the kitchen minutes later, sighed at the unopened envelopes, and told me she could no longer live in London. It had become too expensive, and she was going back to Stockholm.
“Wait, what the fuck, I want to leave too. I hate it here,” I whined. But, it was true. I had spent the better part of the last 9 months in London freaking out over the low balance of my bank account, figuring out ways to maximize every last cent. I rode the bus and walked to class because I was too poor to pay for the tube, I bought clothes for this blog only to have to return them days later because I honestly could not afford to buy a t-shirt from Zara, and I lived off bread and peanut butter at meal times. Come to think of it, the only good thing to come out of living in London was that I lost like 10 pounds, because food is just one more unnecessary expense.