My Life as a Multimillionaire & Poor Person
When Money Matters.
It’s easy to say money doesn’t matter when you’ve always had it. Although I’m not a trust-fund kid, I’ve never had to worry about going hungry. However, like most Westerners who don’t worry about starvation, I’ve stressed about restaurant bills, the performance of my investments, and my ever-climbing Netflix subscription. But unlike most Westerners, I've bounced between living like a penthouse prince and a couch-surfing commoner.
In 2010, I went from living in a gated community to a one-bedroom apartment stuffed with four artists’ egos. In 2015, I went from a family living in my living room to a two-million-dollar townhouse.1 Then came the pandemic: one minute, I was ‘trapped’ in an 8-bedroom, 11-bathroom fortress with a maid and gardeners; the next, I was in an apartment with a ceiling that could collapse at any moment. Recently, I went from taking buses with the barefoot odour of vagabonds to sitting in BMWs with massage chairs.
No, I do not have personal wealth. Still, I have experienced the world of old money and the nouveau riche who spend new money on old money to feel accepted. Unfortunately for them, I’ve got neither the influence, power, nor cash to give them the validation they so desperately seek, but I can wield a fork with grace, making an excellent date.
But enough about me. Let's talk about you—poor souls who’ve never tasted the true emptiness of first-class seats, Michelin-starred meals, or the dubious joy of having a maid fold your underwear.
I’ve never had money to buy those things for myself or others, so I don’t know what the power feels like, only the hedonistic ephemerality. Nevertheless, I’ve spent enough time with the upper class to know that only a few selflessly pay for your material and luxurious experiences because they like seeing you smile or truly believe in spreading prosperity. Others love power games. They know that the more you pay someone, the more you own them. They also know that rich people don’t work for their money—they hire people to make them money.
On the darker end of this glittering spectrum, you have the machiavellian psychopaths who run the world.2 The rich and famous, or even worse, the rich and unknown. These are the men who hire escorts not just for depraved sex but to grind down women’s spirits until they’re as dead inside as their tormentors on a Dubai business vaycay.
Yet, most of the upper class play their games to a slightly less nauseating degree. The entrepreneur who preaches hard work while “working” 12-hour days from his phone by the pool; the tax-avoiding schemers who call themselves philanthropists; the guy who pays for the meal and hotel hoping—but isn’t verbally or physically pressuring—a blowjob; the bigot who picks up the tab just to see how many racist jokes he can squeeze into the conversation—you get the idea.
These people aren’t any less likely to be depressed than someone with empty pockets unless they find something that truly matters. And they won’t find fulfilment unless they find meaning. For me, it’s writing and exploration. I feel more connected to our shared consciousness when walking and transiting than driving in an air-conditioned Benz. I’m just as close to Mother Earth sitting in a forest with my toes in the soil on crown land as on private land. Plus, sleeping on a public beach under the stars is just as divine an experience as on a private beach—if the cops don’t fine you.
What I’m saying is that you won’t find meaning in owning shit. How do you find meaning? That’s your journey. But until you do, worry less about money. It won’t make your life any better.
Well, unless there’s another pandemic. In that case, you truly are better off in a mansion with private land.
I no longer have access to the villa. If you want to help me prepare for another pandemic, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.
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