Let’s Go Shopping!

I know people who make $700k per annum and don’t have any money saved in the bank. I know a secretary who makes $70k per annum and has $1.3m in the market. I know a financial advisor who loses $30k per month in option trades per month. And I know this great big fucking house near the shore, gorgeous views, that can be yours for only $2,000 per sq ft.

Spending money is in our blood. We’ve been programmed since we were young to praise and adore those who flaunted their wealth. Even in classic literature — fuckers like The Count of Monte Cristo and The Great Gatsby were spendthrifts, the very definition of new money behaving badly. In real life both authors of those books, Alexander Dumas and F. Scott Fitzgerald spent every penny they made — partying, living lavishing, not really giving a fuck about the future.

Look, with the winnings from Monte Cristo — Dumas went out and built Château de Monte-Cristo — like a moron — spiraling head first into insolvency.

Bought for by The Count of Monte Cristo, House Dumas

In the wonderful examination of Sir Winston Churchill’s finances in No More Champagne, readers learn that Winston, hailing from 20 generations of wealthy aristocrats in England, born into a lavish lifestyle that makes the fuckers from Downton Abbey look impoverished, was essentially broke towards the latter part of his life — thanks to his incredulous drinking regimen and proclivity for the finer things in life. Sadly, poor Winston needed to write book after book just to keep the lights on — post world war 2. Lucky for him, he was an incredible writer.

Churchill’s childhood “home”

I, like you, am not without sin. I do enjoy the finer things in life too — cashmere sweaters, Italian leather shoes, fancy cars, big ass house — and I can tell you, now with the benefit of introspection and hindsight — none of that shit made me happy. I used to venture off into the city with thousands of dollars in my pocket — rolls of money so big — they couldn’t fit in my pants. I needed other people to hold my money for me. I’d hire a private driver for the night, buy drinks for everyone, expensive dinners, tip people like I just won the lottery, and often return home with just a handful of crinkled hundreds left in my pocket. It was just about the dumbest shit I ever did. Granted, I bought fond memories and anyone who knew me back then probably thought I had a billion dollar trust fund. Truth is, I was reckless and saw my income as something so large that I could afford to spend a little — in an effort to purchase, mind you, happiness.

Life is unpredictable and your income isn’t a certainty. The only thing that is tangible is the amount of money in your accounts — the risk analysis being done to ensure it grows or maintains a steady trajectory.

I’m not suggesting you live the life of a miser, clip coupons, and deny yourself pleasures that make your life enjoyable. I am talking about superfluous spending — the sojourn to Hermes or the new fuckhead Rolex watch that you think you must have — or perhaps a house so big — you’d need the entire family to stay over just to fill it up. Fuck all of that and trust me when I tell you — it will not buy you happiness.

You know what will buy you happiness? Having saved enough money to set up a foundation or a charity for a cause or to finance the education and needs of your family 2,3,10 generations from now. Doing things that live beyond your physical years on this forsaken shithole of a planet. Going to the mall and blowing $2k on nonsense that you won’t wear 1 year from now is a fucking crime and in a perfect world you’d be arrested and imprisoned for it. They don’t want you to make it. Prove them wrong, fuckers.

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