When I was 10, I wanted to be a famous singer. Not like Britney, mind you, as her shimmying hips and huge ass had not entered my childhood mainframe. When I equate famous and singer, they usually come up with Tina Turner or Whitney Houston...I do not dabble in slutty teenage girl mentality.
Of course, when I say famous I mean rich, because what kid doesn't want to roll around in a pool of Benjamins? Yes, that's right, I wanted to be a billionaire.
Thinking back on it now, I'm sort of glad I'm not. Life would be easier: I'd probably be thinner because I could afford a gym and time to use it and I wouldn't need to worry that last month's paycheck would barely be enough to cover my student loans. The government would be coming to me, baby.
Despite the ups, I'd probably learn zero life lessons, feel invincible and fall deep into drug addiction or alcoholism. Bad? Most likely. Which would make me a bit like Tony Stark. But probably not.
Why push it? In any case, I'm settled living life in Queens and adopting to the fact that English is definitely a second language in my building. I adore my discounted sun dresses and the occasional cheap Chinese from the corner restaurant. Suffering builds character; if so I'm the Mickey Mouse of the lower-middle class masses.
At least this will make a great What Not To Do 101 entry. "How not to completely f*ck up your life if you have loads of money".
Live free or die quick, kids.
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