Dirty, dirty art whore

Recently, my only source of income dried up, and apparently my parents have long since stopped caring about my pathetic whining for privileges like "food" and "a bed". This has presented me with a slight problem. You see, I have needs. Wait, scrap that, that makes it sound like I need money for a prostitute. Which I don't. Really. By needs I mean food and whatever I'm subscribed to at the moment, along with when I start leaving my house again, the usual social tax. For about a month I've been watching by already small bank balance shrivel up and die. And now, I've got to the point where I'm going round my house collecting pennys to turn into cash to turn into computer cash, which is somehow better. I'm doing my best, trying to get my brother round so he can drop pennys down the sofa which I can collect later, but eventually, as always, the pennys run out.

So I have a plan:
I'm going to sell stuff. I'm not yet sure what, but I've got to have some old games or something left. If it gets bad enough, I'll have to start painting stuff and selling it like some kind of disease ridden art whore. A dirty, dirty art whore. I can't make good art, but neither can most artists, so its ok really.