Originally posted December 9, 2009...
After a long absence, I am trying this blog thing again. I don’t like it so far. This blank page is daunting. The problem with blogging, facebooking, status updating, twittering, etc. is that it makes one incredibly self-absorbed. The idea that my thoughts and ideas are any more important than yours is untrue. But because the contents of my brains keep me up at night, maybe sharing them will help me sleep. But nothing is worse than energy for no purpose; rambling for its own sake. With that in mind, I will strive to make this blog user-friendly, practical, a joy to write and read. That is my dream, and I’ve often heard that the difference between a dream and a goal is a plan. So I will break my entries into Dreams, Goals, and Plans. Today is Wednesday, December 9th, 2009.
Dream: Obscene wealth and little responsibility.
Goal: Achievable. Lottery winners, heirs and heiresses, Montag-Pratts, flukey inventors and people with Friends in High Places, have all managed to amass wealth while exerting little to no effort and incurring little responsibility.
Plan: Several. First, the lottery is risky, but only if you spend more than you win. Therefore, I will only spend “found” money. That is, cash found by me that I had no prior knowledge of. If a find two dollars in an old coat, let’s say, or my boyfriend accidentally leaves a five dollar bill in the freezer, I will spend that money on a lottery ticket. Fate would play a part in me finding this money, right? So why not take it as a sign and spend this found money to find more money?
Becoming an heir may prove difficult as my parents are neither wealthy nor dead, and while the former would be nice, I dread the latter. Heidi and Spencer Montag-Pratt are obscenely wealthy due to frequent appearances in the media and their television show The Hills, which has nothing to do with hills, as far as I can tell. Instead they take long lunches and fight with their friends. I could do that but I eat too fast to really lengthen a lunch, and my friends don’t really stay friends if we fight all the time.
I have so many ideas for inventions you guys, I feel like this will be ticket out of paycheque to paycheque two jobs no sleep existence. For instance, what about an alarm clock connected to your body somehow that won’t go off for when you set it, but will gently wake you when you’ve had the exact right amount of sleep you need. Sure you’d be pissed if you missed work, but then you’d be like, “But I’m so refreshed!” You’d be happier, trust that. Or how about a towel that warms up when it gets wet? Or shoes that climb up stairs by themselves so even if you’re super tired and have an armload of groceries you can say, “Shoes go!” and just keep your balance as you ascend.
I love my friends, but with a few exceptions, they are not in High Places. They don’t have the means to make me obscenely wealthy, and if they did, I would hope they would take care of themselves first. So I need to make rich and generous friends. To do that, these rich and generous people have to know I exist, so I have chosen a few successful people I truly admire to name drop in the hopes that they Google themselves, find their name in here and think, inexplicably, “What a nice young man. Let me employ him somehow, or cut him a cheque.” Possible, Jill Soloway? How about you, Davey Holmes? Need a hand, Dan Savage? Come on, Steven Levitan, you owe me from all those times I watch your show. Pedro Almodovar, I waited in line for six hours (SIX!) to pay forty dollars (FORTY!) to sit in the nosebleeds (BLEEDS!) for your latest movie at TIFF. And Maria Bamford, you don’t have to send me a cheque or employ me, but tour stop in Toronto would be fuckin’ awesome.
My last and most unpleasant resort would be to dupe innocents with insecurities into investing into my cure-alls, which cure nothing. For instance: small penis? Try losing a whole bunch of weight except for in your penis. Or cut your pubic hair really short, but then perm it into tiny, tiny ringlets. It’s all a question of perspective. I have more ideas, but you have to pay for them.
My laziness isn’t the problem, not really. If I could get the hours, I’d work all the time. It’s simply my lack of skill and competence, but I can’t let that stop me. One day when I’m super rich I’ll look back on this, probably with one of those futuristic tiny computers that fits right in your eye, and I’ll laugh the rich man’s laugh at a poor man’s dilemma. I’ll wonder how I ever got myself into that mess in the first place, and marvel at how I hoisted myself out of it.