See, when you have money, you have options. The world is your oyster. You’re the one calling the shots, making the decisions, setting the course. Not fate or circumstances or need. You. Because you, my friend, are free — not trapped in a crummy job taking all kinds of crap.
Now, there are legions of well-intentioned, well-meaning people who will argue that you can’t buy happiness; that’s a falsehood. Oreos make me happy and I can buy those by the bagful. Often at a discount with double coupon savings. Happiness is indeed for sale, everywhere you look.
It may not be the kind of deep and fulfilling pleasure you’ll find in a good marriage or a rewarding career or an altruistic life, but fleeting, superficial happiness still counts as happiness. Even if it didn’t, wouldn’t piles of money provide for a pretty comfortable misery? I believe it would and I’m prepared to test the theory as soon as I find an investor, someone with the resources of, say, Mark Zuckerberg and the judgment of Homer Simpson.
To quote Dorothy Parker, ‘I’ve never been a millionaire but I just know I’d be darling at it.’ Truth be told, I’d probably be darlinger as a billionaire. Although darlingest as a zillionaire. Hey, I know, let’s find out how much it takes to make me darling. A million? A billion? A zillion? A swanky beach house in the Seychelles? A Rolls Royce Phantom? The family size Double Stuff Oreos? What?
Please send a big, fat check to me, Lisa, at publikworks. In return, I’ll send you a lovely, sincere thank you note, handwritten and everything — suitable for framing. I’ll include pictures of me being darling at posh, luxurious locations around the globe. Aw, heck, I’ll throw in a free publikworks t-shirt besides.
Because if there’s one thing of which I’m certain, it’s this: being broke is a drag. And I’m beginning to suspect part-time, minimum wage gigs aren’t the road to riches we’re being told they are. Quelle surprise, eh?
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