When coins fall out of a man’s pants pockets and you find them on your bedroom floor the next morning, it’s kind of like being paid asshole tax.

We’ve all been there: Happy hour becomes drinks at dusk, which becomes drinks after dark, which becomes going to bed at three am and shortly thereafter waking up late for work with a serious headache and a stranger in your bed — you’re okay with it; I’m okay with it. What I could do without is the lousy two dimes, three nickels and one penny that are left behind after the man has collected his belongings and left my studio apartment.

I understand that you’re too lazy to bend over for the 36 cents that fell out of your jeans when you vigorously and hornily tossed them aside, but I’m lazy as well. And, I will likely stare down at those coins for at least a week until I finally bend my fat ass over and move them somewhere else so that the change — which seems to shimmer against my dirty wood floor and whisper in my direction, “wham-bam thank you, ma’am” — won’t serve as a constant reminder of my whoreish behavior.

I mean, if you’re going to leave the money on the dresser, in a manner of speaking, at least leave me a few quarters so I can wash the sheets you helped sully. And, shit, aren’t I worth more than 36 cents? I’m no hooker, but if I’m going to be left a tip for my efforts, I think dolla dolla bills are the lowest form of currency I’m going to accept. After all, I’m not the asshole, you are.

Okay, maybe you’re not an asshole, that’s a generalization. For not every guy I wake up next to — or who leaves in the wee hours of the morning — is a total dick. There’s gradient levels of dickdom in every man. However, I’m sure there was some level of disrespect during our exchange — a finger here, an unauthorized pearl necklace there — that leaves me feeling the need for some sort of compensation. And, sadly, the only reparation I’m going to get is that 36 cents that was cast aside as quickly as a used condom.

If I had a nickel for every time I was left a nickel… well I do, actually; and, tragically, I’m still stuck in a cycle of financial strife. If I had been left quarters or even a few Sacajawea coins throughout my many years of skankin it up and bangin it out, I’d probably have a better apartment by now… and maybe even a new car. Pimp My Bee. I wonder if Xzibit is ready for a spin-off of such epic magnitude. Until then, I’m going to label one side of a pickle jar “asshole tax” and the other side “tips” and keep it beside my bed. Let’s see just how much money in spare change a girl can make in a year. I have a feeling I’m going to Disneyworld!