It arrives at the bank, noticeably crisp and in mint condition. The firm paper smells like new currency and folding it is an attack against perfection. Someone gets a hold of it and slides it into a soda machine, not having to worry about the spitting-of-it-back-out while they stand there . . . thirsty.
Months after, a different person leaves the same dollar in their pant's pocket and the dollar suffers an hour-long tumble in cold water, which slightly hinders its perception as 'perfect' thenceforth.
Over time, as different people trade the dollar bill for commodities, its crisp appearance lessens and soon enough develops wrinkles and a limpness about it.
The "Tooth Fairy" gives it to a little boy; someone includes it in a gratuity for the substandard waiter at last brunch, then a few people roll it up into a funnel to aid their cocaine habit on Saturday nights.
Saturdays and Sundays tick on the calendar and a homeless person eventually adds the dollar to .75¢ and buys a bottle of wine with it, which ironically enough had been charitably given to him by a wealthier man than he to do something good with, but he has failed like the loser he is.
Cashed.
Somebody then writes a telephone number on the dollar, and a youngster eventually has to apply Scotch tape upon the dollar bill because it has ripped while pulling it out from a piggy bank . . . . All of which---more or less---ruins its days of effortlessly sliding into that soda machine ever again.
Lately the bill has smelled like 'old people' for whatever reason. George Washington's face has become faded in appearance, and the top left corner of it will not stay folded down no matter how much pressure is put into the push. It bends either down or up; never aligned with the rest of the bill.
Today a friendly man is holding this same dollar bill. He does nothing to hinder its longevity as something worthy of using to purchase goods. He simply folds it meticulously while in his chair, transforming the rectangular paper into an overlapping square then places it between a stripper's tits.
Some time passes and the same man gets a champagne room from the very same dancer. A month later, he's paying her rent and somewhere around this moronic act of generousity, he believes love has entered his life. The funny part is that the original dollar bill presented upon the dancer had surpassed her actual worth by roughly 49¢.
She might be fine, but that doesn't make her any less of a bloodsucking archfiend nemesis of the ecclesiastic.
