“Uh yes, I’ll take that helicopter in hot pink.”
How often do you get to say that sentence? I’m guessing not very often. (Oh and by the way, I am totally judging you for choosing hot pink. I’m just saying.)
Let’s face it. While you may mumble that sentence in your dreamy, sleep-induced state, you probably won’t ever actually get to say it in real life. Unless you are Bill Gates’s child. Or George Clooney’s lover of the nighttime. Or Prince Harry’s long-lost sister (which would really be unfortunate because then you could never marry him).
ANYWAY, do you ever think about how cool it would be to be a bajillionaire? I’m not talking the typical “What would you do with a million dollars?” (That could probably buy you ¾ of a nice house these days anyway). I’m talking, what would you do with a bajillion dollars. What is a bajillion dollars, you may ask? It’s a million plus a million plus a million plus a million, you get the idea, except go on for eternity.
People who have money, have power. Not necessarily in an evil, take over the world and paint it all pink (you selfish fiend of questionable taste). I’m saying that when you have financial clout, people do stuff for you.
Want go to a Tay Swift concert but it’s sold out? You could just call up the 23-yr old who actually feels 22 and she would definitely feel like giving you a ticket. Probs for free. Because everyone knows rich people don’t have to spend money. (How do you think they stay rich?) She might even throw in a backstage pass, so you and she could dress up like hipsters and make fun of your exes together.
Or what if the iPhone doesn’t come in hot pink? You just call up whoever owns Apple now and force him to start making them in hot pink just so you can order one. (Again, what is with the pink?)
Do you like chocolate? You can hire someone to go buy it for you. I mean probably anyone could hire someone to do that, but you could pay that person some sick money and make them really happy and probably count it as a tax deduction by classifying it as philanthropy or something. (I don’t actually know how tax deductions work….)
Honestly, at this point in the economy, you could probably pay someone to chew your food if you really wanted them to. (Although, again, I question your judgment. Because that is disgusting. But whatever, you are fabulously wealthy—so I’ll just judge you behind your back.)
Do you need some time away from your adoring fans and the paparazzi? Go buy yourself an island. No, seriously. People still do that. You could actually go buy yourself an island.
At the end of the day, fabulously wealthy people get everything they want. And I know, I know, you idealists are crying out, “But what about love? What about happiness?”
Well, I don’t know about you, but a sad, poor Theresa is a lot more tragic than a sad, wealthy Theresa. They say money doesn’t buy happiness but I would really appreciate the opportunity to prove all those haters wrong. Plus, money buys chocolate. And ice cream. And tickets to Maroon 5. Which is basically happiness anyway.
Don’t get me wrong—attaining “fabulously wealthy” status is clearly the goal, but, let’s get real for two seconds, there’s a 99% chance we WON’T get there.
Translation? If one is fabulously wealthy:
A) You WILL be hated for absolutely no reasons besides that of your infinite funds. Is this fair? Of course not.
B) Either your friends are super rich and shallow (the claim here is that the two go hand in hand) OR they aren’t super rich but want to be surrounded by those who are. Aka the latter will probably be incessant flatterers with not a whole lot else to offer.
C) You’re probably a prick. No, seriously. I mean, don’t get offended, but we all know that the Gossip Girl characters are either douchey or bitchy. It’d be better to settle for middle-class wealthy, deal with driving a Mercedes instead of a Lamborghini, cope with buying a dress from Saks instead of custom-ordering a Dior haute couture.
D) Your IQ is akin to those belonging to the designer-clad rich kids on The Hills. Let’s face it, you probably received mediocre grades at your high school—ahem, boarding school—and drank yourself through college (see IVY LEAGUE … which you attend thanks to obscene gestures of a bribery-based nature). Now you work at GQ or Vogue due to knowing someone who knows someone. Elitist connections for the win!
E) You’ll have to move to a country with lower taxes. Somewhere warm, somewhere tropical that fills you with fuzzy feelings. Like Russia. I’m sure Putin will welcome you with open arms. See Gerard Depardieu.
F) You’re not doing anything remotely productive with your pathetic life. You tan; hit the gym (scratch that, I meant flirt with your personal trainer); enjoy carb-free, fat-free, gluten-free meals by your private chef; feel the need to enhance your already modified figure by getting implants in one or more various regions of your body; gossip like the gossip whore you are; ergo, you have nothing to show for yourself except a sense of entitlement and airbrushed perfection.
G) Tax evasion. Don’t play dumb; you’ve heard the stories. People trying hard to avoid the inevitable release of finances from their fingertips. See banks in the Cayman Islands.
H) You end up in serious debt à la Nicolas Cage. (But if you’re not a movie star willing to make lame low-grossing films, you might end up making sex tapes like that Teen Mom chick or the pouty Kardashian.
So, in a nutshell, encompassing the “fabulously wealthy” status will lead you to flee the country to a frozen wasteland where you will wither anonymously because you have no common sense or survival skills. Sucks to suck.
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