Not to be depressing, guys, but it’s kind of a bummer to watch your dreams slip away. Not all of them at once. I’m not talking about an American Beauty moment when you realize that your life is hollow, and you’ve been chasing a meaningless husk of a life for your entire adulthood. Hey! Wait! Stop running away! I said it’s -not- like that!
But there were moments over the past few years when I’ve realized that certain childhood ambitions just weren’t going to happen. The first time was probably my freshman year in college, when it became clear that I would never play in the NBA. So, I probably actually knew that before. I’m 5’9″ and I don’t have a cool nickname like Muggsy or Spud or Tiny. I feel like if you are small and don’t have a good nickname, you’ll never make it in the league. Also, I probably needed a jump shot and a conditioning regiment.
But anyway, my first year of college coincided with Lebron James’s first year in the NBA. And it sunk in immediately. Maybe I should have just gone pro. I wasn’t doing anything with my four years of college eligibility, and Lebron’s career seemed to have a higher earning potential than my creative writing degree was going to give me.
I think that’s part of growing up, though. Understanding your own limitations (not being able to dunk, poor coordination) and organizing a life around capitalizing on your strengths. Over the years, I’ve realized that I am ill-suited to several of my childhood dream jobs. I’ll never be able to be a scientist (turns out I only enjoy fake science), male stripper (I only have a medium-good workout ethic, mostly dude clients), an astronaut (don’t love rollercoasters), or a dinosaur (warm-blooded, they’re extinct).
Most recently, though, I have come to accept that I will never have my ultimate dream job: Eccentric Billionaire. Gosh, would I be a great eccentric billionaire, but I don’t have a billions-inducing lifestyle. Case in point: I’m doing this while the financial world is happening. I just have no interest in any of the jobs that lead one to become a billionaire. Except hip hop mogul. But I think once you hit your mid-twenties and don’t have a top forty single or a bullet wound, you’re washed up. My rap career, like my pro-basketball career, was over before it began.
And I don’t want to live comfortably, in this scenario. I want to be, like, cartoon duck wealthy. The kind of rich where you could afford to surgically insert some sort of titanium spine, which you would obviously need to dive head first into a silo full of doubloons. (The physics was ludicrous! Why did no one mention this?) I’m talking so rich that I am expected to wear a top hat at all times. I want one monocle for each eye, just as constant proof of fanciness.
Here are some things I would do as an eccentric billionaire, just to show that I’m qualified:
1. I’d give a lot to charity, but I would also found my own insane charity, just to see if celebrities would donate to it. Something like Pinky-Rings for Preschoolers. Then I would funnel that money to a more legitimate source. Because obviously, preschoolers don’t need pinky-rings. It’s a choking hazard.
2. I would live in a museum. Not, like, I would style my house after a museum. I would rent a room in a museum, but just treat it like my regular house. I’d constantly be wearing a bathrobe. I’d leave towels everywhere. But I’d be learning. Billionaires always are improving their minds. That’s something I just made up about them. See that initiative? I’m billionaire material after all!
3. I would hire a band from my childhood to learn all of my favorite songs and play them at the push of an iPod button. Not even a band I liked. Probably I’d choose the Spin Doctors. They strike me as a band that needs the cash. That’s like more charitable work, guys.
4. I would make it rain, everywhere. For those of you who aren’t aware (hi, mom and nana!) making it rain is a thing in the hip hop community wherein you go into a strip club and just throw a ton of money up in the air, and people go crazy and often get shot. Now, I am no proponent of handgun violence. And I also don’t care about strip clubs. BUT! Would I not be the most popular guy at the bakery or the yacht store (a place where I assume rich people can go to buy yachts, although, maybe it’s considered tacky there to make it rain)? I would love to pay for groceries by just sending a cloud of hundred dollar bills flying through the air.
5. Robot legs. Jet packs. Laser eyes. Umm, obviously.
So anyway, the last embers of my billionaire dream are dying on the hearth. A hearth that is metaphorical, because my apartment does not have a fireplace. If you have several billion dollars, though, please think of trusting me to administrate it. As you can see, I’ve got some pretty sound ideas. If not, though, the children will have to go without pinky rings. Can you live with that on your conscience? I thought not.