As far as I can tell, from my very distant plebeian view (because they won’t let me get any closer), once you’re rich you only have one goal.
To get richer.
Over and over again we see it. People have all the money, just obscene amounts of it, and all they want is more. More money to get more power so they can get more money so they can get more power to manipulate the system so they can get more money, blah, blah, blah.
How utterly boring.
It’s people like me that should be filthy stupid rich. Give me a crap ton of money. Someone who is old school poor. A red-blooded American bastard child born to a single teenage mom. Because listen, once I’m rich, I’m good. I don’t need any more money. I would feel absolutely no need to destroy nature or other people’s lives or democracy itself in pursuit of more.
And HOO BOY, would I have fun with it. My god, do you know the things I would do if I had money?
I’d start off small, of course. First, to celebrate that I’m no longer a peasant, I’d go to a fancy ass restaurant and order the GOOD wine. No second cheapest red on the menu for me. Oh no. The one with the label I can’t pronounce that has hints of cherry and oak or whatever it is that good wine is made with. And then I’d buy the entire inventory of the good wine and tell the server that it’s all for the employees when their shift is over. Front of house, back of house, the ladies who come in the middle of the night to clean. And then, once I’m drunk enough, I’m going to buy the restaurant outright, yell “who’s been working here the longest?” and make them the new owner.
Then I would go to my doctor AND my dentist, throw up a huge wad of cash, reveal just how long I’ve been lying to them about my “healthy” habits and tell them to give me a full work-up. I’m a mess. But since money is no longer an object, I can now bring up things that I was worried about in the past out of fear my insurance would try to bill me for even daring to mention it.
And then I’d turn to everyone in the waiting rooms, announce “this round is on me” and pay all their medical bills.
Speaking of which, I’ll also hire some super scary pitbull lawyers to fight my insurance company for everything and anything they dare to not pay for. Like, I’m going to get super petty about it. Huge bonuses for any attorney who makes the health insurance person on the phone cry.
Then I would tell my husband he can quit his job and that starting today, we’re gonna start living our best lives. Which obviously means buying a house somewhere in New England where I’ll write books and help the local sheriff solve crimes on the side like my girl Jessica Fletcher.
Yes, a cute but modest house that has all we need and nothing we don’t. With TWO bathrooms. Maybe even an additional half bath. (No more coordinating poop schedules for my family!) But I’d buy it in a rich neighborhood with one of those ridiculous homeowners associations and make their life a living hell. I’ll put a pollinator garden in the front yard and watch them go apoplectic. Paint the exterior a garish color and get a llama that I’ll train to spit on people walking by who are wearing blood diamonds. Refuse to upgrade our 2003 Honda Odyssey van (The Tan Van-Damme) and park it right there outside the garage in all its rusted hobo glory.
Then I’d pay all their fines in giant jars of mixed coins.
Naturally, the HOA will try to get me kicked out but they forget, I’ve got the sheriff on my side, what with all the crime solving.
Then I’ll hire a down-on-her-luck single mom to be my cleaning lady and grossly overpay her under the table. I’ll overpay her so much that eventually she’ll be able to buy a house for her family in the neighborhood. Then she’ll get her own cleaning lady and I’ll find another one I can grossly overpay and we’ll continue to do this until we completely reverse gentrify the entire area and the former tenants flee.
Then I would travel the world. But not first class. Never first class. You ever notice how those people won’t meet your eyes as you slowly make your way toward the back? It’s because they know. They know how awful they are and how awful it is back there. And that if we were to crash into a mountainside and had to start eating each other while we waited to be rescued, we would start with them. Because they’ve been marinating in champagne and smugness and warm chocolate cookies while we just suffered through something called “chicken.”
But I would BUY first class tickets every time. Roughly half of them for the flight. Then I’d find every family with small children, every drunken frat bro, all the chatty grandmas with vaguely racist views, and, of course, the guy who can’t stop clearing his throat, and give them the tickets. Meanwhile I’m relaxing back in economy, surrounded by empty seats, as chaos reigns up front now that there is no longer a barrier in place to keep the PUBLIC from descending on their orderly, elilist lives.
The only thing that wouldn’t change is my children’s lives. I’m not even going to let them know we are disgustingly wealthy. Rich kids tend to be assholes and grow up to be even bigger assholes. But there would be signs if they paid attention. A thermostat turned up to 68 in the winter (70 on the weekends!) instead of 62. Shampoo bottles not filled with water once they’re almost empty. No more dealing with bullying because I’m paying for therapy for all their childhood bullies.
And, perhaps the biggest sign of all, the fact they now have two loving and attentive parents who aren’t perpetually stressed out as they stare despondently down at a bleak future that will likely make them work until the day they die just to make ends meet.
Chick Writes Stuff 