If your money could talk, then what would it say about you? Do you still carry your money in a pouch nestled against your butt cheek? I daresay that anything that rides so close to such a sensitive area of your anatomy would do well to keep quiet.
My money has said some things about me that I’d like to set the record straight on. First, my money has purchased quite a number of high end clothing items (natch) that may tell onlookers of a lifestyle that exceeds their budget (to say nothing of their credit card limit). Now, while this may seem to be saying the right things about me and my position in life, I fear that there are those who misinterpret these statements to mean that I am nothing more than a few thousand dollars worth of their time because that is all the value it seems my outfit demonstrates. I’d like a way to silence this tacit judgement without the inconvenience of wearing a bracelet that boldly proclaims my net worth in 64 point bold font. Besides, the value increases so dramatically on a month by month basis that I fear the plebes may, again, be confused as to just how “out of their league” I am. For now, I am resorting to renting obnoxiously expensive sports cars to take off-roading, but while that has its appeal, a clear declaration of my superiority here on this abandoned island of the internet is obviously the best way.
Second, my investments have sounded a stodgy alarm that I would love to quell.
That dirty looking duplex with steady income each month and a dog in the yard may look tired and smack of old timey lords and ladies sitting in a parlor sipping tea and laughing about leases and estates, but it seems a damn sight better than the rapidly rising and falling sucker bets on bitcoin and NFTs that we are all so eager to read about. Speaking of bitcoin, please wake me up when that garbage finally runs out of juice and takes all of these newly minted billionaires with it. So, while you may hear tales of stale air and damp crawlspaces from my money’s sass about my duplex investment, just remember that I have a place to rent to you and I have a long memory.
Third (and this is the last one), my commute car with its caked on dirt and the sun faded color has told some wild lies about my status and I’d love to sort this out. The trouble is that while I may drive a Toyota Corolla with 800 thousand miles on it to the office and back home, this doesn’t represent my true situation in life. That car is like a mule to me: I kick and curse it in one instant and then expect it to haul me where I need to go in the next. It doesn’t mind because it is stupid and thick and requires abuse in order to thrive. This is just how it is. I don’t choose to spend my last dime on glamorous rides that cost me more to maintain just so that I can flaunt my status while on my way to work and back and so the statement made can seem confusing. But let me assure you, my position is secure and my money better just keep its damn mouth shut.
Oh, and you can keep your bitcoin too. Thanks.