Using every darned last inch of this costly journal down to the last line

I intend to use every darned inch of this journal.  I have these last two-point-five empty blank pages left before the whole thing is full.  Waste not want not.  Be frugal.  Be careful.  Check the balance.  Watch out, especially with your money.  And time is money and buying a fresh new journal is money, speaking of which (what an odd convolution: speaking of which) this journal is the first I’ve used in years that I went to go buy, go bye the bye, bye, bye.  I spent three thirty-nine or something for this which price, while buying it, felt expensive, expansive, expatriate (I bought it on a sojourn in a strange, foreign land, Chicago).  That’s actually cheap-cheap for the therapy it gives me, cheep-cheep for a medium (an artist’s, not a spiritualist).  I don’t use expensive paints and canvases or clay, cloy, claw, or fabrics (I should swath my writing room in textiles, apt decoration to accompany writing words, righting text) or fancy camera with schmantzy lenses, or a piano or violin or mandolin or any other music ano or lin or media, but just a writer’s notebook.  Yet I was still left with my thoughts, my own textiles running through my brain (sane?) the cost the cost, be careful.  Sorry hon, sorry kids, sorry dad and mom, sorry all and sundry, I spent three-thirty-nine (or was it three fifty-nine) on this journal.  First entry March twenty-nine, last entry four days for daze, fore dais-ey shy (my, my, my) of three months.  I s’pose a buck fifteen a month ain’t too bad, no not too bad, fairly frugal, friggin’ frugal, frighteningly frugal.  Couldah spent thirty bucks on a schmantzier version, still wouldah, couldah, shouldah been thirty cents a day, sense a  day, scents a-day.  Even a hundred buck journal, a dollar a day, a dollop a day.  Hey, hey.  Three-thirty-nine?  You kiddin?  That’s fine.