Oh, sure. But I would like to know how I became a millionaire. Was I hit by a small meteorite and cashed it in at a museum? Did I help a fellow millionaire and they were feeling kind? Did I win the lottery? Did a sadly deceased wealthy family member leave me a huge inheritance? Did I discover a secret government operation and they paid for my silence? I wouldn’t place all my bets on that working, though. The government would probably just kill me instead.
What if I became a millionaire? I’d take it all out of the bank in burlap sacks with pound signs on them, dump the contents of the sacks on my living room floor and roll about in the money naked. I’d be throwing all the money in the air screaming, “I’M RICH, SCREW YOU WORLD!” That would be a fun Monday.
I’d eat pearls for breakfast. And I’ve have golden teeth. I’d need them because pearls aren’t edible. I’d probably need a new digestive system as well, to cope with all the pearl eating. Replacement organs now and again. But I’m rich, so I can afford to blackmail those who hold all the cards. In fact, it would be considerably easier to replace my organs with machinery. In fact, it would be easier to replace my whole body with a machine. In fact, it would probably be easier not to eat pearls in the first place.
In all honesty, I’ve never thought about being rich. I don’t think I’d like what it would do to me. I’d just put my millions in the bank and carry on with life. Money isn’t a luxury, it’s essential for survival. Do I need a mansion? Or would a regular sized house do? I’d take the regular house. Expensive furniture? What’s wrong with Ikea? Well, yes, they do sell horse meatballs, but apart from that, what’s wrong with Ikea? Expensive watches? No, it’s a timepiece. It tells the time. That’s all I’d want. Expensive clothes. Well, I wear clothes not to be naked. I succeed at that most of the time. Supercars? Oh, I’d rather take the bus. Ancient wine? Hate wine. It tastes like armpit. Become a golfer enthusiast extraordinaire? Honestly, what is point in golf? Fancy underwear? Look at me. No one is gonna see it. Especially if it’s my underwear. Butlers? I mean, honestly, what is the point in – actually, I’d quite like a butler.
A millionaire’s lifestyle is not for me. Working class boy in a working class town. I like this life. It’s not easy but it’s honest. I have the basics and that’s all I need. I aspire to be the best I can be but that doesn’t mean I need money to make it a reality and to make me happy. I may end up becoming a millionaire, but I’d like to think it wouldn’t change my lifestyle. Money should be cherished and not thrown away.
I doubt I’d ever become a millionaire, though. Don’t know a millionaire, never won anything on the lottery, no government secrets, and I’ve never been hit by a meteorite.
Although that’s probably for the best.
Would you like to be a millionaire, readers?
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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
The Indelible Life of Me
The Gawping Godliness of Pies
Hark Around The Words