https://weeklyhumorist.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/yo-yo-ma-feat.png 330 432 Bobbie Armstrong https://weeklyhumorist.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/WH-color-logo-pattern-b.png Bobbie Armstrong2021-07-27 19:38:452021-07-27 19:38:45I Regret Becoming a Millionaire in My 20s
I Regret Becoming a Millionaire in My 20s
I’m going to let you in on a secret: Life isn’t about work. It’s about friends, family, and investing in cryptocurrency so you can tell people at dinner parties you invested in cryptocurrency. I used to be the guy telling everyone they too could and should become a millionaire in their 20s, but I’m here to tell you that I regret it. The truth is that all my friends are still poor and now I’m really fucking bored.
It’s easy for me to say life isn’t about work because I never have to work another day in my life. Plus, a Tesla is a lot cheaper than it used to be.
I can say wholeheartedly that becoming a millionaire in your 20s isn’t that great because none of my friends can afford to go jet skiing in Maui twice a week. From the ages of 7-23, I was working 250 hours a week, saving every penny from my fifth job at the sock factory so I was able to invest in Uber and BlueApron when I was 21. It’s not my fault my friends spent their childhoods being useless and unproductive children.
By poor, I mean all my friends make between 75-300k, which may sound like a lot, but when you crunch the numbers there’s no way you can charter a private jet to a live volcano for a light lunch of Wagyu beef and extinct asparagus from Bolivia on that kind of budget. Add the bill from brunch in Tribeca? Forget about it.
I know what you’re thinking: I need new friends who can afford to go bar hopping to different continents. You’re probably also thinking that my life sounds really hard and you’re glad you’ve never had to undertake the responsibility and burden of becoming a millionaire in your 20s.
What they don’t tell you about becoming rich so young is that these days, fake gold-plated dishwashers look just like the real thing. Every Friday night I feel so bad for myself when my friends meet up for tacos and beers and I’m left all alone in my 160-foot yacht in the middle of the French Riviera. Even my personal chef Rex thinks I’m a total loser.
I’m not asking for your sympathy, I’m just asking for a little empathy and some friends who will pay me back when I Venmo request them for the birthday dinner they didn’t treat me to, leaving me to coordinate transportation between mainland Chile and the South Pole igloo where we dined on foie gras while Yo-Yo Ma played the cello and cried.
I have so much free time I have no choice but to become a billionaire in my 30s.